Cages and Barriers
by WhiteHare
Summary: Mitchell visited Barry Island in 1957 when the funfair was "all kinds of brilliant". When werewolves, old flames and new flames collide, what will the outcome be? T for occasional swears along the way - this is Mitchell after all!
1. Chapter 1

**I couldn't resist following up the comment by Mitchell in the deleted scene on the series 3 DVDs that he had been to Barry Island in 1957 and that the funfair was "all kinds of brilliant". There's a smattering of Big Bad John in here but a few hints of what the 60s will bring too. And don't slap me for the car - he didn't get the Volvo till the 60s and I liked the look of the Zephyr; it looked like a car a 50s Mitchell might well drive.**

**If you like the fic, please leave a review. **

**As ever, Being Human belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC and I am playing very respectfully in the universe they have created.**

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><p>Mitchell ought to have been happy; he was in the driver's seat of a very nearly new Ford Zephyr that was his pride and joy, his friend and mentor was in the seat beside him and the open road stretched out before him. Truth was, he wasn't happy at all.<p>

He and Herrick were heading for Barry in South Wales, a backwater when compared with their usual base in Bristol, and they were going to be staying on another vampire group's patch, so he had to keep his nose clean for a while. For someone with John Mitchell's taste for mayhem, that was going to be torture.

He was hungry before they had even got to the Aust Ferry. He couldn't be properly hungry, Herrick told him – he'd fed only a few nights before, after all – but even the emergency chocolate from the glove box didn't fill the gap in the same way blood would and Mitchell had an almost insatiable taste for blood. Herrick knew him better than anyone and he could see the twitchiness in his friend by the time the car was loaded onto the Severn King to make the crossing over to the Welsh side of the river. It was probably a good job Mitchell had never piloted a ferry boat or the crew might not have made it to the other side with their throats intact.

Once on the road again, it was all Herrick could do to distract him from a family having a picnic by the roadside and a hapless attendant at a petrol station. Both killings would have been discovered quickly and they were in a no-mans land, caught between their area of influence in Bristol and the group that controlled Cardiff and its environs. It just wasn't worth the risk.

Reasoning didn't make Mitchell less hungry. Physically stuck at twenty four, he seemed to have retained his young man's appetite and sometimes it seemed to Herrick that he just couldn't eat enough to keep him satisfied. Herrick sometimes wondered if the expression 'hollow legs' had been invented with Mitchell in mind.

So by the time they got close to Barry and spotted a broken-down truck by the side of the road, gaudily painted cars and fire engines on the back hinting that they were heading to the pleasure park at Barry Island, Mitchell was ready to feed on anyone that crossed his path. The road was quiet and the look in Mitchell's eyes bordered on pleading as he glanced across at Herrick, who was in his usual place in the passenger seat. A glimmer of satisfaction crossed his face when Herrick gave the slightest of nods and Mitchell pulled the black car over onto the verge behind the truck.

"Hey, you fellows got a problem?" he called, pulling himself out from behind the steering wheel.

Two men were standing beside a jacked-up wheel, considering it grimly. "Got a flat and we can't shift the last wheel nut. Bloody thing's stuck fast and we don't have a bigger wrench than this without unpacking the whole damn truck to get to the tools for the roundabout. Don't want to be doing that by the road, if we can help it." It was the older of the two who answered, sleeves rolled up to reveal fading tattoos and his hands covered in dirt and oil - some fresh from the wheel, some so deeply ingrained into his skin as to be almost a part of him. He looked sinewy and strong, his skin toughened by days spent in the open air. The younger one was also wiry, but taller and broader, denim clad and black booted.

"Want me to have a go?"

The two fairground workers looked him up and down dubiously and Mitchell didn't have to be a mind-reader to know what they were thinking. They clearly couldn't see how he would succeed where they had failed, for he was tall and lean and they had biceps to spare. "Sure, if you like."

He might be hungry, but he was still a well fed vampire, with the strength to match, and a few well judged tugs on the wrench quickly had the reluctant nut parted from the wheel, and the tyre was soon lying on the verge. The fairground men seemed in no rush to make any progress, leaning up against the truck for a leisurely cigarette before putting the spare wheel on. Mitchell joined them, chatting companionably about their plans for their summer at Barry Island while Herrick watched in amusement, enjoying seeing his protégé toy with his prey before going in for the kill.

Mitchell took the last drag from his cigarette and ground the butt out beneath his foot, then held out a hand as if to shake the older fairground man's before departing. The man held out a hand still grimy with oil, and Mitchell clasped it, grabbing the man's elbow with his other hand and twisting his arm to expose the paler skin on the inside where a serpent twined down the arm and coiled round his wrist. The man gaped at him in surprise, to be met with obsidian eyes and fangs showing between grinning lips. "Been nice meeting you," said Mitchell and he sank his fangs into the man's arm, raking down the arm slicing flesh and muscle from forearm to wrist and incapacitating him while he dealt with his companion.

Nice touch, thought Herrick approvingly. That was a new technique for Mitchell; he normally went straight to the neck, but the rapid blood loss would prevent the first man making a getaway while the other one was dealt with. It was interesting to see his young charge experimenting with his kills.

The older fairground man slumped to the ground, eyes wide with shock, howling in pain and clasping ineffectually at his arm as the blood flowed freely down, soaking through the leg of his trousers and staining the dusty ground around him. Mitchell turned his attention to the younger one who backed away, hands raised to ward off a similar blow, but stopped when he discovered that Herrick had come silently round behind him to cut off his retreat.

"Going somewhere?" Herrick asked with a lift of his eyebrow, allowing his eyes to scorch black and his own fangs to descend. Caught between the two the young man started to whimper, his knees shaking and finally giving way.

"Please. Please don't kill me," he begged, kneeling in front of them. His colleague was still barely clinging to consciousness and watching the proceedings with eyes that were filled with horror, but starting to glaze over.

"What do you think, Mitchell? Shall we kill him?"

"I think we should, Herrick, the bastard's only gone and pissed himself, look. Pathetic sod like that doesn't deserve sparing."

"Oh he hasn't?" groaned Herrick with a roll of his eyes. "How very undignified of him. So, one each, or shall we share?"

Mitchell reverted to type for the second man, sinking fangs deep into his neck and drinking deeply of the warm thick blood, revelling in the sensation as it coated his tongue and flowed deliciously down his throat. Herrick fed too, briefly, his appetite not as great as Mitchell's, who was intent on gorging himself. Mitchell handed the younger man over to Herrick to finish off the older, feeding from him before he bled out. By the time the two men were drained and long dead, Herrick was almost as fresh and dapper as he had been at the start of the journey, but Mitchell's face was streaked with blood which had run down his chin and soaked into the front of his shirt.

Mitchell rolled his tongue around his lips as his eyes returned to normal and he lolled in the front seat of the car in a state of post-prandial satisfaction. "God, I needed that. Not the best I've ever tasted," he commented wryly, "but it fills a gap. You could tell they spend a lot of time in the sun though, couldn't you? That older guy had a hide like a rhino. Remind me to target the guys who run the thrill rides when we get to Barry – they don't open till late. Bloody kids' rides are open all day. Knew there was a reason I preferred women."

"Other than the obvious?" Herrick raised an eyebrow and Mitchell smirked, his dark eyes twinkling.

"Yeah, that too."

Soon Herrick watched as Mitchell dragged the bodies into the back of the truck, their bodies draped over the cars and motorbikes in a grotesque parody of the many children who had ridden them in the past. Jumping into the cab, he slipped the truck into first gear and manoeuvred it to the very edge of the embankment, then climbed out of the driver's seat, put his shoulder to the back and pushed it slowly forwards. It tumbled down the slope, rolling over and over before coming to a juddering rest at the bottom in a crumpled heap of ride parts and mangled metalwork. Mitchell peered over the edge, then turned back to Herrick, the look on his face pronouncing himself satisfied with the results of his labours.

"I don't think anyone will find it there in a hurry. At least no-one will be looking very hard for a couple of carny guys – they'll figure they just got a better offer someplace else."

"As long as we get it straightened out with the local police before anyone does, although you've left enough clues there for even the most hard of thinking officer." Herrick looked critically at Mitchell, "You're a mess. Clean yourself up."

Mitchell drew an arm across his mouth, frowning at the blood smear left behind. He scrubbed at his mouth with his hand, then rubbed his hand on his trouser leg. Herrick wasn't convinced that was an improvement; the older vampire was fastidious by nature and feeding was a neat and precise business for him. Mitchell on the contrary tended to gulp his food and rarely managed to feed without evidence of it smeared across his face, a childish trait that caused Herrick amusement and irritation in equal measure.

"You're such a messy eater," chided Herrick gently. He tried to sound reproving but his tone betrayed his fondness for his protégé. Together they had become the stuff of legend; with Mitchell at his side Herrick's ambitions turned from idle daydreams to clear reality. "You'll need to clean up before we get to Barry or you'll give our new landlady nightmares."

"I still don't see why we've got to go to Barry Island," said Mitchell. "Why can't Cardiff see to their own setup?"

"They've got some of their people out of the area for a few weeks and I volunteered to keep an eye on Barry for them. They don't have the big network there that we do in Bristol, although they have ambitions, so they don't have the backup that we do and there's often...cargo...in and out through Barry Docks, so they needs someone they can trust in charge." Herrick paused then commented, "There used to be a big dog fight set up there, if you remember."

"Yeah, I heard about it. Dog fighting's not my thing, really."

"Hmm, well, I'm thinking about starting it back up again. That's the main reason I offered to look after the place, actually. I thought we could see what interest there was: maybe run it for them occasionally. Not every month, obviously, but now and then. We could even get our own cage together over in Bristol if there was enough call for it." Herrick had been watching Mitchell while he said that. Mitchell pulled a face, his body language betraying his lack of enthusiasm. "Any branch running dog fights gets a lot of kudos from others, Mitchell, you know that. I'd get more interest if you were in it with me. At least think about it."

"Sure," and that was the last conversation Herrick got out of Mitchell till they reached Barry Island.

ooooo

"So why the hell are we staying in a guest house?" A freshened-up and clean-shirted Mitchell peered through the window of the car at the bay windows and hanging baskets of Whitmore View, which was to be their home for the foreseeable future. A sign in the window pronounced "No Vacancies" and a ginger cat nestled comfortably amongst the geraniums in the front garden. It all looked very homely.

"Not worth renting a place till we know how long we're likely to be here. Anyway, I'm sure Mrs Griffiths will make us very comfortable."

Mitchell parked up while Herrick went to ring on the doorbell, leaving Mitchell to deal with their luggage. The door was answered by a pleasant-looking woman in her early thirties, who was wearing a plain dress and white apron with lace edges. "You just caught me dusting," she smiled, tugging off her pinny. Her voice was soft and Welsh-accented; she was evidently a local. "Do come in. Is that all the luggage you have, or shall I leave the door open for you? That's it? Well if you'd like to follow me upstairs, gentlemen. You have adjacent rooms here – will they be alright for you?" She swung the doors open to reveal two rooms – smallish, but adequate for their needs – and stepped inside the first one, indicating the window. "I'm afraid they don't get much direct sunlight, but the sunniest rooms we have are booked each year to the same two ladies. They have been visiting sixteen years now for the same week in the summer and they are very attached to those particular rooms."

Herrick beamed winningly at her, "Neither of us is fond of the sun anyway, Mrs Griffiths, please don't worry on that account."

"Oh, I'm not Mrs Griffiths. At least, I am, but not the one you mean. Mrs Griffiths who runs this guest house is my mother-in-law. I just pop over and help out and make sure there's always someone in if guests are arriving and she has to go out. She'll be back later, so you'll meet her then." Mrs Griffiths the younger stepped back out onto the landing. "If there's anything else you need, just shout. I'll leave you to settle in and I'll make a nice cup of tea if you'd like to pop down. Just come whenever you're ready." And she smiled broadly and started back down the stairs.

The two men took to their rooms to unpack and sort out their belongings, not a particularly dangerous or taxing task, but Herrick clearly heard Mitchell exploding into a stream of expletives even through the not insubstantial walls. When they both emerged to return downstairs to claim the promised tea, Mitchell was still rubbing his eyes and obviously in some discomfort. He groaned at Herrick's enquiring look. "Bible in the top drawer of the dresser. Bloody Gideons! They make opening chests of drawers in hotels like a game of Russian roulette."

The younger Mrs Griffiths, or Janice as she told them to call her, proved to be amiable company. The two vampires cast expert eyes over the lounge, finally settling on chairs nowhere near the large Victorian mirror that took pride of place over the mantle. These two were experts at mixing with humans, but walking in front of mirrors was a common mistake made by the less experienced and something of a giveaway, since vampires had no reflections.

"So what brings you to Barry Island, Mr Herrick?"

"Business, mostly. I am involved in various business opportunities here; you might call me an entrepreneur. My nephew helps me out wherever he can."

The sound of the front door opening announced the arrival of the older Mrs Griffiths. "Irene, we're in here," called Janice, "Mr Herrick and his nephew have arrived and we're just having a nice cup of tea. Bring yourself a cup in if you want some – there's still plenty in the pot."

"Let me just put the shopping away and I'll be right there," came back an English voice and they could hear the sound of cupboard doors opening and closing in the kitchen.

A few minutes later, a woman of about sixty years old came into the lounge carrying a cup and saucer to pour herself some tea from the pot in front of Janice. When she saw Mitchell she froze, eyes widening. The cup rattled on the saucer and nearly fell as her hand shook, and she brought her other hand up to steady it. "Oh my goodness," she gasped when she recovered herself a little, "I know who you are."


	2. Chapter 2

**A bit of a "get from A to B" chapter here, but I hope it will still divert and/or entertain. **

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><p><em>"Oh my goodness, I know who you are."<em>

They both stood to greet the woman as she entered, Herrick holding out a hand to shake to try to cover Mitchell's obvious confusion. "Mrs Griffiths, my name is William Herrick and this is my nephew, John-"

"Mitchell," she interrupted. "I'm right, aren't I? I'd have known you anywhere." Her voice was still shocked and she gazed intently at Mitchell, who shuffled uncomfortably, looking helplessly at Herrick. Being recognised and not knowing by whom was not good. His appearance hadn't changed substantially since Herrick had turned him and this woman was old enough to have known him many years before; this could prove awkward.

The woman smiled gently. "Oh, I'm sorry, have I embarrassed you? It's just that I recognised you as soon as I came in. You could only be John Mitchell's son – another John, are you? – you are the living image of your father." She turned to Herrick, "And you're his uncle you say? There's not much of a family resemblance there, if you don't mind me saying, and your accents – well they could hardly be more different."

Herrick's calm assurance was starting to crumble round the edges. They had used this uncle/nephew cover so many times without it being queried that he was a little shaken to have it called into question. "Ah yes, I'm his mother's brother; we were born and raised in England. Mitchell here takes after his father's side, both in looks and in accent. Fortunately for him the red hair stayed firmly on our side of the family." He looked a question at Mitchell, who gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head. No, he still hadn't placed her, and he was on thin ice until he had. Mitchell could tell that Herrick was poised to kill both Mrs Griffiths and her daughter-in-law if it seemed necessary, his vampire state no more than a thought away.

"How did you know...my father, Mrs Griffiths?"

"We met many years ago, during the Great War. He was on leave and so was I – I was a nurse, you see – we were both very young. I was getting the train home, but all the trains were packed - people crammed into the corridors and shoulder to shoulder. Your father had got there early and had a seat already. When I arrived I'd resigned myself to sitting on my suitcase all the way to London, but he offered me his seat and helped me lift my suitcase into the rack."

"John was always such a gentleman," murmured Herrick.

She smiled at his assessment. "He certainly was. He didn't have enough time to get to Ireland to see his family - home leave was only a few days and travel was harder than it is now - so I invited him to spend some time at home with me and my parents. He stayed in digs, of course, but he came for Sunday lunch and he even took me out dancing one night." Irene's eyes had filmed over. "He was such a nice man."

Mitchell had remembered her as soon as she mentioned the train. Could this really be Irene? She had been pretty, he recalled. Not stunning, but certainly attractive, with a naive charm that had drawn him to her like a moth to a flame. They had talked non-stop on the train, completely oblivious to the others in the carriage and he'd kept her parents' address, hoping to make contact with her again after the war. That had never happened, of course; the man seated across from him had put paid to that. The misty look in Irene's eyes just then had suggested maybe she had hoped to hear from John Mitchell again too.

"It really is remarkable: the resemblance, I mean. Now that I see you properly it's not just your face but your build, your mannerisms..." She flushed slightly, and alarm bells started to ring for Mitchell. "Your father...is he? I mean, he obviously married..."

Jesus, the last thing he needed was this old flame trying to trace his "father". Better to put a stop to this particular train of thought and quickly. "He died, I'm afraid, just after the last war: a heart attack." That should put paid to John Mitchell the war veteran and any risk of Irene Griffiths attempting to contact him. Damn it! Of all the places they could have stayed in Barry, Herrick had to bring him to the one with Irene...what had her name been then? Not Griffiths, that was her married name - Masters, that was it, Irene Masters. He had to bring him to the place with Irene Masters in it.

"Oh, I'm sorry. He was a dear sweet man. You must miss him terribly." Her face composed itself into that expression people wear when they have been told of a bereavement. "You really are his double, you know. Two peas in a pod. I expect you get told that a lot. My late husband was a lovely man too, but I always wondered, if things had been different..." She changed the subject abruptly. "Well I hope you enjoy your time in Barry. Has Janice told you any nice places to eat out around here? There are all the fish and chip shops and cafes on the sea front of course, but there are some nicer places too."

Herrick smiled warmly at her. "That would be lovely, Mrs Griffiths. I'm sure we won't go hungry." Across the lounge from him, Mitchell couldn't resist a smirk. Yes, he was sure he and Herrick would find some nice places to eat.

ooooo

If they were to run dog fights in Barry the first thing they would need would be a cage to hold them in. There had been no fights in Barry for so long that Herrick had no idea whether the old cage was still usable, or even if it was still there, so Herrick had sent Seth and Marco on ahead to check it out. The site was still used by vampires occasionally, so the building itself was sound, and when Herrick and Mitchell arrived on the site the verdict from Marco and Seth was pretty favourable. It seemed there wouldn't be too much work needed to make it usable, as Seth reported.

"We've had to clear out a lot of rubbish, as it looks like it's been used as general storage for years and it's become a bit of a dump. We've replaced a couple of bits of the wire mesh that were a bit dodgy, but otherwise it was pretty sound considering. There's a full moon in a few days and we can easily have it ship shape by then. We could see if we can round up a dog somewhere and run the first one then, if you want. Maybe we could hang around for it." Seth clearly didn't want to be sent back to Bristol if there was the prospect of a dog fight in the offing.

"Is Barry likely to have any resident werewolves?" asked Mitchell doubtfully. "Seems like a bit of an out of the way place for them."

"Oh, I dare say one or two have drifted back in the last few years," commented Herrick. "When the fights were being run here regularly they steered clear. By the end the vampires here were having to go as far as Swansea on the odd occasion when they needed a replacement – sometimes even further. But the funfair attracts people from the fringes: weres and vamps, you'll normally find one or two in each funfair. It's the travelling you see. You don't have the problem of people starting to realise that you never change if you move around a lot and change the crowd you move with occasionally. The fact that a lot of travelling funfairs only start up after dark appeals to vampires too. And for werewolves the nomadic nature of the job means that if they are out of action every few weeks no-one pays much attention to it."

Herrick dragged a trunk out from under a bench, its metal clasp rusted away to almost nothing, and pulled out an assortment of knives, a stout rope and a metal chain with an ankle cuff on the end – all relics of the previous occupants of the cage – and considered them thoughtfully. He turned to Mitchell, "Seth and Marco are going back to Bristol soon to mind the shop there and you'll be most use to me out there with your ear to the ground, so you could do with seeing if you can get a job while you're here. I'd say the funfair would be a good place to start – lots of locals going through there as well as tourists and it's likely to be a decent hunting area for us too."

Mitchell pulled a face but didn't protest. While he didn't make a habit of living off Herrick, working on a funfair didn't sound like his cup of tea at all. But he knew better than to argue with Herrick and chose to change the subject. "That was a bit weird yesterday - that stuff with Irene. Do you think we should move?" The conversation with her the day before had rattled Mitchell more than he cared to acknowledge. It had been strange for him, seeing this pensioner and realising how much she had aged and that the parents who had been so kind to him were probably long dead while he was stuck forever the way he had been when they met.

"And have the lovely Mrs Griffiths wonder why we've left in a hurry? No, we'll stay there. If it looks like we'll be here for a while we can find a flat instead, but for now it's fine. Just watch what you say to her." Herrick watched Mitchell anxiously as he strode away to give the cage another once-over with Seth. Even after all these years he sometimes struggled to read him and when that happened it made him nervous – very nervous indeed.

ooooo

The following morning Mitchell headed towards the funfair in a reluctant quest to find a job and Seth tagged along with him. There was an ongoing resentment between the two vampires that had been present since the day Mitchell was turned and Seth was making no effort to hide his amusement at the situation. In fact, he was making a point of getting all the mileage out of it that he could.

Mitchell grumbled to himself as they made the short walk from Whitmore View to Barry Island Pleasure Park. "Dunno why he wants me to get a job anyway – it's not like he's short of a bob or two, wherever it comes from. Bloody funfair. What's he think I am anyway, a carny guy like the ones we ate on the way here?"

Seth's face twisted into a leer. "Why, Mitchell, haven't you noticed?"

"Noticed what?" Mitchell took a cigarette and lit it, not breaking stride as he stalked along the pavement. A thin plume of smoke escaped his lips and he sighed contentedly, his complaints silenced for a moment as he savoured the taste.

Seth's smile grew wider. "He doesn't trust you, Mitchell. When was the last time recently that you killed without Herrick there?" Mitchell's forehead creased as he considered the question. "Can you even make it onto the fingers of the second hand? He's keeping you on a tight leash, especially after that fiasco when you slipped away from him in London a few years back."

"I didn't slip away from him. The smog was so thick I could hardly see my hand in front of my face." Indignation laced his voice.

"I think Herrick thought that was just a convenient excuse. That's why he's sent me along with you to make sure you get where you're going."

"Bollocks to that. I'm quite capable of finding a job myself and you may have noticed that I'm not with Herrick every moment of every day, so I hardly think I need you watching over me."

"But I'm your babysitter, Mitchell, and I intend to take the role very seriously." Seth grinned once more, enjoying a rare upper hand over Mitchell. "Who has he left in charge in Bristol, then? If you're supposed to be his second-in-command why aren't you there, keeping all us lesser vampires in order, rather than trying to find a job in some flea-ridden fairground?"

"Yeah, OK, Seth. Maybe you should reconsider sharing your wisdom with me. It's not like you've got any to spare. Now go sink your fangs into a toffee apple or something and leave me the fuck alone," and the Irish vampire strode off, leaving the other trailing in his wake and with the distinct impression that he had just snatched defeat from the jaws of victory once again.

ooooo

Herrick was still out when Mitchell got back to Whitmore View, still without a job. He had been told firmly 'no jobs available' wherever he had enquired and after the first few rejections he had gradually got less and less fussy about where he asked. Irene Griffiths had ushered him into the lounge and insisted on providing him with tea and biscuits. "Nothing fancy, I'm afraid, just Rich Tea, but if you're anything like your father, you're always hungry. Mother laid on a huge Sunday lunch that time he visited and he ate his way steadily through anything she put in front of him. I don't suppose he got much to eat at the front, though – it must have been a treat for him, the poor lad."

Mitchell refrained from commenting. He still remembered that Sunday lunch, even after all the time that had passed. Irene had smiled shyly across the table at him while he enjoyed a meal the like of which he hadn't seen in years. He couldn't imagine how they had managed such a spread with rationing and all – her parents must have gone without for weeks after he and Irene left to have put on such a meal for them that day. But it had been the way her parents took him to their hearts that had touched him – he hadn't seen his own parents for two years and Irene's took good care of him. "Their way of helping the war effort" her father had said, and he had been moved by their kindness. He hadn't thought about that in years, decades even. He didn't have much call to be moved by the humanity of people these days.

"So, Mr Mitchell, you are quite a lot younger than my children. About the age your father was when I knew him, I'd hazard a guess. So did he not marry till later in life, then?" She still wanted to know about her John – it seemed that first crush had left quite an impression on her.

"He married my mam a couple of years after the war ended," Mitchell bluffed, "but I'm the youngest of us."

"You have brothers and sisters, then?"

God, he was getting in deep here. How quickly could he down his tea and biscuits without giving offence? If he used his own parents as models, at least he'd remember what he'd said, and his father had been the youngest of five. "Yes, there are five of us – four boys and a girl."

"And where is your mother from?"

"Oh, she was from Dublin, like my Da'."

Irene looked puzzled for a moment. "But Mr Herrick said... Didn't he? I'm sure he said your mother was English and that was why you and he had different accents."

Shit! Time to get himself the hell out of the hole he'd dug. "She was from England originally, but moved across to Dublin; that was what I meant. Thanks for the tea, Mrs Griffiths, I'd best be getting on." He downed the last mouthful of his tea and made for his room, grateful when he could close his bedroom door behind him and relax at last.

ooooo

Herrick was unimpressed at Mitchell's lack of job-finding skills when he arrived back that night, and Mitchell spent enough effort deflecting Herrick's criticism that the conversation with Mrs Griffiths went out of his head.

Mitchell was doubly annoyed to be told that Seth had reported back to Herrick that he'd managed to locate a werewolf already and that he and Marco were following him and watching for a good moment to make the snatch. It seemed that Barry's werewolf cage would soon be occupied again for the first time in several years. Mitchell was studiously unimpressed; there had been an unspoken rivalry between him and Seth for the past forty years, and he had half expected that Seth would take their need for a werewolf as an opportunity to win more Brownie points with Herrick. Marco was happy to tag along with Seth for the most part, hoping to bask in any reflected glory that Seth might accrue and, worryingly, Mitchell thought, with even less wit and intelligence than Seth to figure out how to get any credit for himself.

Damn it! Why had it had to be Seth who had found the were? Mitchell was sure if he'd been sent to locate one he could have tracked one down just as quickly, if he hadn't been trekking around trying to find a way of earning a few bob a week. He had a sinking feeling that he knew how much Seth would be crowing about it the next day, too. That conversation with Seth had unnerved him more than he cared to acknowledge. He had become so accustomed to his place at Herrick's side – his chosen one – that any threat to his position, even from Seth, was unthinkable. He'd find a way to win Herrick over again – to convince him that he was unshakably, unquestionably his right hand man.


	3. Chapter 3

**Usual stuff. Doesn't belong to me, hope you enjoy, leave a review...**

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><p>At breakfast the following morning Mrs Griffiths gave Herrick a hand-written envelope that had been hand-delivered for him. Herrick opened it with the silver paper knife that she passed him and scanned the contents, giving a satisfied grunt as he did so. "It seems our mutual friend has managed to procure the package we were talking about last night," he said, waving the piece of paper in front of Mitchell, who had already guessed what it was about.<p>

Mitchell pointedly made no attempt to take it and read it, preferring to continue his mission to work his way through the contents of their toast rack. He muttered around a mouthful of toast and marmalade, "You mean Seth can write? Miracles will never cease."

"Now, now, Mitchell, you really shouldn't mock the afflicted. Just because Seth has had considerably more success with our business ventures than you have so far is no reason to be so cutting about him."

Irene Griffiths paused at their table, two plates of full cooked breakfast in her hands. "I couldn't help overhearing. Is there any reason why you call your nephew Mitchell, rather than John?"

The two vampires exchanged glances and Mitchell gave his full attention to his bacon and eggs; Herrick had got himself into this one so he could get himself back out again. Besides, it wouldn't do for them to get cold.

"Ah, well, you see John is such a common name on both sides of the family that I started calling him Mitchell just to distinguish him. You'll often hear him calling me Herrick instead of Uncle William, too – it's become a bit of a joke between us, you see." Mitchell thanked his lucky stars that Herrick was such a plausible liar; he had learned a lot about the art of deception and weaving cover stories since he had been with him. Herrick was a master of the art and Mrs Griffiths seemed satisfied, removing the empty toast rack and replacing it with another full one and smiling at Mitchell as his hand reached out to secure possession of another slice. Yes, he really was just like his father: always hungry.

"So much for watching what we say," commented Mitchell wryly, as Mrs Griffiths retreated into the kitchen. But the two of them made mental notes to themselves to be more careful in the future.

ooooo

"His name's Gareth Owen and he's been working at the pleasure park. Itinerant worker, from what I can make out, so people will probably figure he's just moved on and not look too hard for him." Seth was almost unbearably pleased with himself and Mitchell rolled his eyes and attempted to look bored.

"Good work, Seth," said Herrick. "How did you find him?" He flashed a warning look at Mitchell. He wasn't going to tolerate any adolescent posturing from his second.

"Me and Marco stood outside the funfair at closing time – you could smell him a mile off." Seth preened slightly at the praise from their leader and sneaked a look at the glowering Mitchell. "We got him back here last night and we've put him straight into the cage since it's been fine. We figured he might as well get used to it. He's been raging most of the morning; I think he'll be a feisty one. And it also means there's a job going down at the funfair." He grinned at Mitchell. "Double bonus."

"Excellent. Like you say, he's unlikely to be missed beyond them being a man short at the funfair. You can start letting people know that there will be a fight in a few days then. Usual rules for betting apply." As Seth hurried off to start spreading the word, Herrick turned to Mitchell, "I'll be expecting you there, of course."

Mitchell groaned. "Do I have to? Dog fights are so predictable – they always end up the same way." He had seen a fair few fights in his time and in his opinion the anticipation was never equalled by the fight itself, which was almost always woefully mismatched. Mitchell could remember one fight where the human had given a good account of himself and that had still ended up with a werewolf victory – and an absolute killing for the house bookies. "Even the bets about how long for the first limb to come off aren't that interesting any more. How many times does the human walk out alive? I've seen it maybe once? Who are the mugs that bet on the human anyway?"

Herrick chuckled. "Seth, probably, he's ever the optimist."

"That's no recommendation," snorted Mitchell, "Seth would bet on rock, paper, scissors if there was nothing else to bet on. Even if the human ever survived he's likely to be scratched, and then we end up with another bloody dog to take his place. I just don't see the attraction. Can't we spice it up somehow? Dog fights are just boring."

ooooo

Mitchell managed to put off going to the funfair for a whole day, arguing that Herrick needed him more out and about among the vampire community spreading the word about the dog fights restarting. He couldn't put it off any longer than that, however, and the day after saw him back at the funfair entrance talking to the guy on the gate.

He hadn't even negotiated his way past the entrance before someone shouted across at him, "Hey you! You were after a job – you still looking? Good. One of the chaps on the scenic railway didn't show up yesterday and he's not here again today, so if he hasn't quit he's sacked. Get yourself over there and see if they can make use of you. What did you say your name was again? OK, Mitchell, over you go. Tell 'em I sent you to replace Gareth."

As it turned out, jobs on the scenic railway were pretty prized and Mitchell had landed on his feet: right time, right place. Normally a new recruit would be expected to work his way up via the candy floss stalls and the kids' roundabouts, so Mitchell had taken one hell of a shortcut. He didn't think Seth would see it that way though and thanked his lucky stars that Seth didn't have the wit to come up with more than the obvious jibes.

The scenic railway was a wooden rollercoaster – one of the biggest in Britain – and the screams from it could be heard across the funfair. It was the most popular ride in the park and Mitchell and his colleague Riley had to make sure that the punters were loaded quickly and safely and unloaded equally quickly to keep the lines moving. His on the job training was scanty at best. "If there's a big queue turn on the charm, sweet talk the girls a bit, make all the blokes your new best mate, OK? Keep the punters happy for me."

Chat up the girls and be blokey with the men, he could probably manage that. It sounded more fun than making candy floss or helping four year olds on and off merry-go-rounds, anyway.

He developed his own little patter. "Hold her tight, mate. There's a big drop on this ride, wouldn't want you losing her." "You two ladies out by yourselves today, then? Are all the men in Barry blind or something?" "What do you need to be eating candy floss for, Sugar? You look sweet enough without it to me." Despite himself, he started to enjoy it and he seemed to be fulfilling the brief of keeping people happy, his Irish accent and broad grin proving irresistible to even the more fed up of patrons. And of course, the vampire charisma didn't hurt at all. He wasn't sure what earthly use he was to Herrick there, or exactly why he wasn't taking charge in Bristol. A nagging part of his mind told him that Seth was right and Herrick didn't trust him enough to leave him in sole charge, but Seth for crying out aloud? But at least he was paying his own way and would have enough money of his own for a few beers on a night out, without going cap in hand to Herrick all the time.

ooooo

A few hours before full moon, the girl crept through the hole in the fence that her brother had showed her weeks before, shortly after he'd first got the job here. Cerys had dressed in her darkest clothes, hoping to blend into the shadows and remain undetected. She had a horrible sick feeling in the pit of her stomach that something very bad had happened to her brother. He'd never stayed away from home before; he knew she worried; but tonight was worse. Tomorrow she would change and she had never done that without him looking out for her before. Every month he made sure she was safe before taking himself off, these last few weeks in Barry locking her in the basement of the house they were renting while he came here to the pleasure park to transform. If she was going to find him it would be here.

They had travelled around a lot together since they had been infected a few months ago, never liking to stay in one place too long. The pleasure park had been an ideal job for Gareth, with the locals more than matched in number by people who moved around where the work was. Jobs available for hard workers, no questions asked. He'd soon worked out that the mountain of the scenic railway was hollow, made of wood with a plaster and concrete exterior, and it hadn't taken him much longer to find a way in through a maintenance door that was concealed under the scenery. It was there that he would take himself to transform, counting on the wolf's lack of manual dexterity to prevent it opening the catches that secured the door, and on the stoutness of the structure to resist the onslaught of teeth and claws that the wolf would unleash on it. Maybe, just maybe, he would be there.

For the millionth time in the last couple of days she wondered if she should go to the police and report him missing. But when you live furtively in the shadows, trusting any sort of authority doesn't come naturally, and especially this close to their change the last thing either of them needed was attention drawn to them. Gareth had said that the vampires controlled the police around here anyway – the risk was too great. She was so confused; she didn't know which way to turn.

Cerys needed her brother desperately. In her nineteen years they had never spent more than a night apart when one or other stopped over at a friend's house and since they had left home after their infection they had got closer than ever. Losing him was like losing a limb. Even though he was six years older than she, they had done everything together; they had even been attacked by a werewolf together and had barely escaped with their lives, only eluding it because its change was incomplete. That was when she saw what her fate had in store for her, the tortured howls ripping from its throat as bones cracked and its body was taken to the very limits of its endurance.

She slipped along behind the roller coaster and found the gap in the scenery that he had showed her. Invisible from the ride, it was hard to find in the falling dusk, and she missed it a few times, going over the area with fingertips to find the join. She pulled back the invisible entrance and dropped lightly into the interior of the ride. It was dark, and she flicked the switch on her torch, sweeping it backwards and forwards trying to make sense of the glimpses she was seeing.

"Gareth?" she called softly into the cavernous inside. "Gareth, are you here? You're worrying me, you are." No answer but a soft sound like whispering as the breeze rippled over the scenery.

It seemed strange for a werewolf to be scared of the dark, but the park by night was unsettling. The wind rose, lifting a loose scenery panel. It slapped down and an eerie howl echoed around the underbelly of the ride. "Ah, shit," she murmured, biting her lip nervously. This was going to be a long night. Where the hell _was_ he?

She fingered some gashes in one of the supports, the wood torn and splintered. She spread her fingers wide and fitted them into the grooves; yes, he had been here alright, the marks of his claws were plain to see if you knew what to look for. Looking around she could see other similar marks on the belly of the mountain where the wolf had lashed out in its fury and frustration at finding itself contained. She would be safe here, then. If Gareth's wolf hadn't managed to escape then hers wouldn't either.

"Gareth?" She called once more, hoping against hope that he was here after all. "You here? It's Cerys," but the only sound was the whistling of the wind and the rhythmic flapping of the scenery overhead.

Cerys uttered a low groan as she started to feel the wolf gathering inside her. It was several hours yet till her bones would break and her sinews would rip, and then she prayed that her agonised screams would go unheard. When that happened, she wondered, where would Gareth transform? Was he even still alive?

ooooo

Despite Mitchell's reservations he was drawn into the excitement surrounding the dog fight. There hadn't been one for miles around in years, and vampires were converging from all over to see it. Herrick's eyes glittered at the reputation this venture was sure to offer him, quite apart from the entertainment value that pitting a werewolf against a human was likely to offer. He was happy with the celebrity accorded to his bloodthirsty young henchman, but wasn't averse to grabbing some on his own account.

Mitchell went out and snatched a human, not wanting Seth to grab all the glory again. He took Marco with him and they went as far as Penarth to try to avoid the disappearance being linked with Gareth's. They bundled the man into the back of the Zephyr and whisked him away to the building that acted as a front for the vampire activities in Barry. Mitchell hated to admit it, but there was a certain buzz to be had from all this and he and Marco chatted amiably on their way back, drawn together temporarily by their exhilaration at their success.

Herrick was quite the showman when he got going, and he was soon whipping the gathering vampires up into a frenzy of anticipation. Bets were changing hands, Seth as always being hopeful of making a killing and betting heavily on the human, who was being kept bound in a storeroom in the adjacent building until required. He wasn't in a good way, sobbing and whimpering, and the smart money was going on the werewolf finishing him off in double quick time. Humans rarely managed to stay alive long, and humans reduced to blubbering wrecks in the face of danger were generally not regarded as safe havens for anyone's money, but Seth was ever the optimist.

Despite his several days in the cage, Gareth was in a better state and was showing a steely resolve in the face of his likely fate. Although cages hadn't been used for dog fights for such a long time, the werewolf community had long memories, and he clearly knew what they had in store for him. He paced the cage quite literally like a caged animal, stopping to glare at the vampires who were gathering to take a look at him before the fight.

Mitchell was there, slouched against a packing crate and watching the werewolf pacing his cage as he lit one cigarette after another, observing proceedings through a thin stream of smoke. Seth had been right; this one had something feral about him.

Herrick was in his element, strutting and preening and thoroughly enjoying being the centre of attention. What might have been dandyish in another man singularly wasn't in Herrick – the showmanship had an edge to it: a hint of danger that kept him from sliding into absurdity. Even as he swaggered about, greeting everyone as they arrived and subtly building their excitement for the fight, an aura of evil and menace surrounded him. Mitchell could admire his expertise, even though dog fights weren't usually his cup of tea.

He was unexpectedly gripped by a sort of filial pride. How different would it have been, it struck him, if it had been Seth who had turned him instead of Herrick himself. It could have happened; he knew that; Seth had been there at the time. Then he would just have been any other new vampire, but Herrick had been recruited by an Old One; that commanded a certain respect and Mitchell had inherited some portion of that. As if aware of Mitchell's train of thought, Herrick turned and stared directly at him, a challenge in his eyes. "Do you stand with me tonight, or not?" he seemed to say, and Mitchell's chin lifted and his back straightened in response. He stubbed out his cigarette and strode to stand beside his sire.

Herrick let a long slow smile cross his face, and he slapped Mitchell across the back. They turned together to face the visiting vampires and the atmosphere changed instantly. Herrick was still every bit the jovial host, but now he had Big Bad John beside him. Herrick and Mitchell together made a formidable team and there wasn't a vampire there that night that was unaware of their reputation. Mitchell picked up the length of chain that Herrick had found in the trunk and lashed it across the fence, the crash of metal against metal jangling already taut nerves. He strode round to where the werewolf was standing with defiance on his face, and smashed the bars with the chain again, screaming his challenge at the werewolf. The crowd roared their approval as Mitchell jumped up onto a crate, using the height superiority that gave him to fling insults down at the werewolf, baiting him and using it to get the watching vampires going. It wasn't just Herrick who had a few tricks up his sleeve.

The werewolf responded, throwing his weight ineffectually at the fence where Mitchell stood and drawing jeers and catcalls from the vampires. Mitchell grinned and wagged his finger at the werewolf, dragging the chain across the wires one last time. He let his eyes go black and his fangs descend and he hissed menacingly at the werewolf, who flung himself at the cage again. There was no shortage of aggression in this one and he swore profusely at Mitchell who darted away from the wire, always just tantalisingly out of reach. "Come in here and fight me! Come in here you cowardly undead bastard and we'll see who's the stronger." But Mitchell just chuckled and turned his back, tossing the length of chain over one shoulder as he returned to his customary place at Herrick's side.

Herrick smiled approvingly at Mitchell and Mitchell allowed himself some quiet satisfaction. Whatever the reason Seth was seemingly preferred to him in Bristol there were certain things Seth couldn't carry off. Seth managed threat, up to a point, but when it came to real in your face menace and intimidation no-one managed it quite like Mitchell did. Whether it was his appearance or his accent or just some innate malevolence that people responded to he didn't know, but when Mitchell put the frighteners on someone they stayed scared. Mitchell sent a silent challenge across to Seth, who met his gaze, knowing that this show had been partly for his benefit. He might be in charge in Bristol, Mitchell thought, but if Seth wanted his place as Herrick's right hand man he was going to have to come up with something better than veiled hints and snide comments. He would have to fight for it.

All the vampires were watching the clock now. Not many minutes, surely, before the change would start, and then it would be time to put the human into the cage and watch his face as he realised what he was up against. Would he use the knife that was customarily offered to the human as the underdog, so to speak, or would he wait for the transformation and seal his fate?

Early wagers were offered and accepted, many vampires betting heavily and drinking more heavily still and then with time inexorably drawing closer to the full moon, the werewolf clasped his arms around his abdomen and let out a low groan. Herrick and Mitchell exchanged triumphant glances: it was time to bring in the human.


	4. Chapter 4

**Picks up where chapter 3 left off - we are about to have the dog fight.**

**All reviews appreciated!**

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><p>Mitchell was always amused at the betting that went on at a dog fight; the standard bets of first blood, first limb torn off and heart and liver torn out , all timed with stopwatch precision in seconds from full moon seemed curiously at odds with the savagery of the acts they were timing. Seth normally had a side bet with someone on the human using the knife on the were and managing to survive, but then Seth usually lost heavily and never seemed to learn from his mistakes.<p>

Mitchell himself brought in the human, who was sobbing under the sack over his head. He was uttering what were clearly intended to be words, but were just coming out as incoherent gabble – the man was clearly witless with terror. Mitchell paused level with Seth. "How much did you put on this waste of air?"

"A fiver," Seth looked crestfallen already as he mentally waved goodbye to his money.

"You just never learn, do you?" chuckled Mitchell, as he tugged at the man's arm to get him moving towards the cage again. The man's legs wobbled and he barely seemed able to put one foot in front of the other. This was going to be no sort of spectacle at all; he would be ripped to pieces in no time.

Despite himself Mitchell was enjoying the attention and he and Herrick galvanised each other: each stirring up the crowd in their own ways. Herrick was at his most flamboyant, dancing around the cage tantalising the crowd, while Mitchell let the brutal side of him show. Never far below the surface, Big Bad John glowered and snarled, taunting the werewolf and the crowd alike and revelling in the way the noise rose to a crescendo as he passed, parading the terrified human before him.

The man was all but paralysed with fear when he was finally tossed into the cage, a state heightened by the roaring and jeering of the mob of vampires and Mitchell's chain being gleefully applied to the link fencing again. As Mitchell had predicted, it was very one-sided, the human not realising the significance of what he was seeing and of the knife tossed into the cage until it was too late. Once the morbid curiosity of watching the werewolf's transformation had passed it was mere seconds before the wolf had pounced on the man and scant seconds more before his dismembered body lay strewn on the floor of the cage, the werewolf feeding contentedly on choice tidbits.

The tense atmosphere of the run-up to the fight didn't dissipate when the human was killed: in fact it grew more strained. The smell of human blood cloaked the cage and wafted through the bars. Some few tried to resist it for a while, getting some strange pleasure from the torment that it put them through, but from first blood onwards there were increasing numbers of vampires watching with blackened eyes and fangs extended. Mitchell fought it to begin with, not wanting to be seen to be aroused by the fight after his affectation of indifference, but when the first arm was ripped off the smell overwhelmed him. His eyes snapped to black and he could feel the longing building in him again.

He couldn't be hungry, he told himself. It was – what? – less than a week since he and Herrick had fed. He could normally go twelve days, maybe even a fortnight, before needing more blood. But the smell...oh Jesus, the smell. It wasn't about hunger any more; it was just about the blood. He closed his eyes and his head slumped forward, his chin buried in his chest as he fought the yearnings. He had forgotten how this part felt: had forgotten that the cage was hosed down after a fight more for the comfort of the vampires than that of the werewolf. Oh God, but it was bad. He braced himself against the cage, arms extended, feeling them tremble as the craving took hold and knowing that all around him the others were feeling the same – even Herrick was watching the werewolf with a savage and ravenous look. Some organisers kept a spare human or two in reserve for after the fights for just such emergencies as this, he remembered, and suddenly realised exactly why. He was going to have to kill, and kill soon. A hunger like this wasn't just going to go away.

Many of the vampires dispersed quickly – the lost and the lonely of South Wales were going to have a rough time tonight. Herrick sought Mitchell out and Mitchell forced his eyes to return to normal. He was damned if Herrick was going to see how badly the fight had affected him. "So that went well then," Herrick beamed, seemingly back to his normal self, "I think everyone had a good time, don't you?"

"I suppose." Mitchell wasn't in the mood for conversation.

"But it was good – entertaining I mean. They all enjoyed themselves. Better than staying in and watching 'The Good Old Days', eh?"

"That was last night."

"What?"

"Last night. 'The Good Old Days' is on Wednesdays. This is Thursday. Anyway, I don't know what you want me to say, Herrick. It was a regular dog fight. The transformation was the same as ever, although it's always good watching a dog scream his throat raw, and then the dumb sap we picked up off the street was fucking minced meat in a few seconds. It's all a bit anticlimactic, if you ask me."

Herrick watched as Mitchell shouldered his way through the remaining vampires. He was pretty sure he knew the reason for Mitchell's bad mood, and equally sure that someone would suffer for it that night. He just hoped that Mitchell could get back into the guest house without being seen afterwards, or Mrs Griffiths might have cause to suspect that John Mitchell junior wasn't quite what he seemed.

ooooo

He'd found her in a bar in town not long before last orders were called, sitting with a couple of friends and all of them already with a few drinks inside them. He and the two Cardiff vampires who had seized the opportunity to go out hunting with Big Bad John Mitchell had spotted them from clear across the bar, the sixth sense of natural predators bringing them to their attention. They had joined the girls at their table with drinks all round and after the initial introductions the girls were soon competing for his interest. A couple of rounds of gin and tonic and he'd selected his target; the others could do what they would with the other two. Slender and pretty, just as he liked them, with the drink starting to take effect on her and the distinct vibe that she'd not be too resistant if he offered to walk her home.

The desperation of the hunger had abated somewhat, but he could smell blood again now, as he led her outside. He could smell it over the smell of cheap perfume and Camay, the smoke from the bar and the spilt beer on the soles of her shoes. Over the gin on her breath, he could smell _her_ and it intoxicated him. If he listened closely he could hear her heart beating just a little faster than normal as the alcohol and her arousal had its effect; her excitement fuelled his.

He parted his lips and drew the scent of her deep into his throat – Jesus, he could almost _taste_ her already. She shrank a little under the intensity of his gaze - the prey recognising the predator just that little too late – but he smiled reassuringly and kissed her firmly on the mouth. She relaxed as he put his arms around her, melting into him and lifting her face to his, inviting the intimacy. He almost lost control as her heart started to race, the hunger rushing over him like a flood: his resistance lowered by the dog fight earlier. No, he must hold on. He wanted to savour this: to enjoy her before killing her.

He kissed her again, more insistent this time, tongue probing her mouth and her lips parted as he pressed himself against her. His hands slid down, thumbs lingering at the small of her back and he felt her shiver under his touch. He took that as an invitation, hands pausing on her hips to gather handfuls of her dress. His fingertips found silky stocking tops and equally silky skin above. Her breathing had grown ragged and her eyes were glassy with desire; her head tilted back and a soft moan escaped her lips. She was his, if he wanted her. Christ, but he wanted her. His lips found hers again, demanding now as his self control began to falter. She smelt so good, she smelt so... As his restraint slipped away his eyes snapped to black and his fangs descended just long enough to nick the softness of one plump, full lip.

Intensity shattered, the girl gasped, pulling away and putting her hand to her mouth. "What did you..." She looked bewildered as her fingertips came away bloody. "You bit me? You fucking _bit_ me?" Droplets of blood formed on her lip and a thin red line began to trickle from her mouth. Mitchell licked his own lips, his mouth suddenly dry. Damn it! Nothing would hold him back now. He'd wanted more from her: wanted to possess her, to lose himself within her. But the blood... Oh, God, the blood.

He grasped her hand roughly in his and reached out to wipe the blood from her face. His eyes glittered in the streetlights as he slowly, deliberately, licked his fingers. Revulsed, she tried to recoil in horror but he seized her hand more tightly, fingers closing over hers like a vice. Her eyes reflected sheer terror now; if he couldn't kill her in the throes of sex then paralysed with fear was his second best option. With his other hand he covered her mouth, acutely aware of the blood coating his palm, warm and sticky and oh so very tempting. He leaned closer to her as she trembled against him.

"Don't scream," he whispered. "Don't even think of screaming."

ooooo

There was a lot of excitement in the park as the workers started to arrive the following day. "We've got to check everything over before opening," Riley told him, "apparently there was a break-in last night and we've got to make sure nothing was damaged or stolen."

"A break-in? It's all action here, eh? I've only been here a few days and we've had a missing person and a break-in already. We'll make the six o'clock news yet, boys." If the Cardiff vamps had done their jobs it wouldn't be because of Mitchell, though. With luck the girl from last night had been tidied away and covered up already, the cause of death on her certificate showing something other than exsanguination.

Riley's voice pulled him back from his thoughts of the girl's face as it had been when desire had turned to fear – such a sweet moment. "Yes, some girl was seen wandering around last night over by here, but when the security guard got close she disappeared and he couldn't find her. He said it was like she just vanished. Everyone's got in a right tizzy about it."

"Maybe it was the ghost," suggested another lad who normally worked on one of the stalls but was over helping them check out the scenic railway.

Riley chuckled. "Nah, the ghost is a bloke, that's well known. This was definitely a bird. Unless the ghost has taken to dressing up in women's clothes, anyway."

"There's a ghost?" Mitchell asked. Ghosts by their very nature were the most elusive of supernaturals, but every now and then one would crop up.

"Story is that one of the construction workers died building this thing, and he's supposed to haunt it," Riley explained. "Every now and then people claim to see something, and one of the security guards swears blind he hears a ghost howling every few weeks. Mad as a hatter, he is, though, so no-one listens to him much."

"Probably just the wind through the scenery, or summat," the other lad suggested.

"Yeah, it's a good story to tell the girls though. Get 'em all nice and scared before they ride." Riley threw a sidelong grin at Mitchell; his successful patter hadn't gone unnoticed and a couple of the lads were affecting the same technique already.

Mitchell was thoughtful. It might be worth him checking the area out more carefully sometime. He might be able to detect a ghost where the humans couldn't, and they fascinated him.

They established that nothing had been tampered with – whatever the girl had been up to she hadn't damaged anything and none of the stalls were reporting anything missing, so they figured it was probably just some kids daring each other to come into the pleasure park after dark. Security were checking all the fences to see how she had got access, but everyone seemed happy that there was no malicious intent.

Mitchell was happy – the ghost story gave him another line of patter to use with the girls in the queue. "You know this ride is haunted, don't you, ladies? Anyone want me to ride with them to protect them? I'd see any ghost off for you."

ooooo

A few nights later Mitchell was working well into the evening, so Herrick was in the lounge by himself when Irene Griffiths came in. "No Mr Mitchell tonight?" she asked breezily.

Herrick put down the local newspaper in which he had been reading the front page news: the tragic story of three girls who had been killed when the taxi in which they were riding home from an evening out had careered out of control and hit a tree. That had the marks of a covered-up vampire killing all over it, especially since it had apparently happened on the night of the fight when Mitchell had disappeared with some others and not come back to the guest house till late. At least Mrs Griffiths had spotted that he kept irregular hours and given them keys so they could come and go as they pleased: one benefit of being long-term residents. "No, I'm afraid he has to work this evening."

"Ah, well I wanted to invite you both to our church fete on Saturday. It's only a small church, but the fete is always a bit of fun. Lots of stalls, tombolas – you know the sort of thing. We raise money for charity and I wondered if you'd like to come along: maybe make a donation."

Herrick was momentarily taken aback. Of all the people likely to be attending any church events, he and Mitchell had to be pretty near the bottom of the list. "Mitchell will be working, I'm afraid – Saturdays are busy for him – and I have to meet a contact out of town, unfortunately."

"What about our service on Sunday? The one after the fete is always well attended and it would be lovely to see you both there."

It had just got worse. He couldn't even claim work for them – not on a Sunday. "Well, ah... that might be tricky. You see..." His voice trailed away as even Herrick's sharp mind failed to come up with a convincing excuse.

"Oh!" Irene clasped her hand to her mouth and flushed with embarrassment. "I'm so sorry, of course you couldn't. Catholic, I assume, with the Dublin connection and all? Funny, that never came up with John, but then he came around at lunch time after we'd been to church, so I never thought..."

Thank heavens for that. Herrick grasped at the lifeline she had offered with great gratitude. "Yes, no offence intended, but the priests can be a little funny about it at times." He winced inwardly, sounding unconvincing to himself and hoping he sounded more believable to Mrs Griffiths.

"That's a shame. But of course, he's working down at the pleasure park isn't he?" Herrick nodded confirmation. "Have they heard anything about that young chap who disappeared? It was a few days after you arrived, I think. Maybe you read about it; his sister was in the paper talking about him and appealing for information."

A sister? Damn, Seth hadn't mentioned anything about a sister. The last thing they needed was investigations about the bloody werewolf! "No, I haven't heard anything about that. I'm sure Mitchell would have mentioned it if he had heard. He tells me most things."

Irene smiled warmly, "You know, that's the thing I like about you two. You seem so much closer than most uncles and nephews I know."

"Yes, well when his mother was ill I promised her I'd look after him. She was worried about him being left alone at such a young age."

"But his brothers and sisters, they would have helped look after him, wouldn't they?"

"Oh, Mitchell was an only child. When my sister died so soon after his father I took him in."

Irene was very confused. "I'm sure he said..." She frowned briefly, trying to remember, then smiled brightly, "Never mind, I've probably got the wrong end of the stick. It sounds like he was very lucky to have you to look after him."

Herrick breathed a sigh of relief when she left. He and Mitchell really had to get their stories straight or it wouldn't just be the three girls in the taxi meeting an unfortunate end. He wondered if their pleasant landlady might not have to be sacrificed at the end of their stay, and what Mitchell's reaction to that suggestion might be.


	5. Chapter 5

**OK, final new character appears in this chapter. You can now start speculating as to who (if any of them, mwahahahaha) makes it to the end of the fic.**

**Thanks for the reviews so far. Keep 'em coming! ;-)**

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><p>Mitchell finished work at eight on Saturday night and headed for the Marine Hotel with some of his workmates straight after. It amazed him how quickly they all managed to pack up. The same tune played each night at closing time and some of the rides and stalls were boarded up and the staff heading out of the park before the last notes had sounded. Anyway, they were all assembled at the Marine Hotel bar with beers in hand by eight thirty. They were a good bunch, he figured – noisy and laddish, but mostly harmless.<p>

The conversation went from the quality of the beer through to the girl that kept being spotted in the park after dark – she had been spotted twice more since that initial sighting, but no-one knew what she was doing there - and via that to ghosts and hauntings over the course of several pints. Some of the lads had outrageous ghost stories to tell and Mitchell found himself laughing along with the rest of them. He couldn't remember the last time he'd spent an evening like this with a group of humans without ripping the throat out of at least one of them by the end of it.

He had just reached the stage of intoxication where things were pleasantly fuzzy round the edges which was nice, but the sound of the rush of blood in his companions' veins was becoming more and more insistent in his head, which wasn't. It was two and a half weeks since he had fed after the dog fight and he was going to need to eat soon. He was overdue a feed by a week at least and all the starchy food in the world wasn't going to keep the cravings away forever, despite him filling up on toast every morning. He rose somewhat unsteadily to his feet and declared himself done for the night.

"One more round, Mitchell. Stay a little longer."

"No, I need some sleep. You lot have the day off tomorrow – my uncle has me working for him most of my days off. I'm going for a walk for a bit before going back, so I'll see you all on Monday." Friendly banter followed him as he left, and he waved a cheerful hand as he went out through the door.

The cooler air helped to blow away his hunger somewhat, and he decided to go down to the docks to let the sea breezes clear his head. Leaning on the railings with his cigarette, watching the gulls swooping over the coal ships towards their roosting places, he became aware of some other people on the pier. One of them called over to him.

"Oy! You a Mick or a Gyppo?"

"You what?" Mitchell turned to face them; there were three of them, all about his age and all looking well soused and belligerent.

"You heard. My mate here said you were a Mick – that he'd heard you in the bar talking to them mates of yours – but you look more like a Gyppo to me."

"Not that it makes much difference either way," commented one of his friends, "Micks and Gyppos, we hate 'em both the same," and the three yobs laughed raucously. They advanced on him, one rolling his sleeves up ominously. Mitchell straightened, tossing his cigarette end into the water, unconsciously balling his hands into fists beside him. With the railing behind him and a sheer drop to the sea below, it seemed he was going to have to fight his way out or take a cold plunge.

They came at him quickly and he had time to throw one punch before they were on him. He felt it connect – felt the impact and the pain across his knuckles – but he was into a fight or die situation so fast his normal reactions didn't come into play. Before he had time to think his eyes had scorched black and his fangs had descended and he was snarling his wrath at his attackers, who took one look and backed off several paces. One man turned on his heels and ran, pounding up the quay and back towards the town. The other two stared in horror at Mitchell, then exchanged glances and followed their friend back along the docks, one making a significantly faster getaway than the other.

Despite himself Mitchell followed, adrenaline – or whatever passed for it in a vampire's body – urging him to attack while he had the upper hand. He hadn't fed for weeks and this blood was fresh and healthy. He caught the straggler quickly, grasping his shoulder and hauling him round to face him. The man whimpered, scarcely daring to look in Mitchell's face. "How'd you do that? Your eyes..."

Mitchell came close, so close he was almost eye-to-eye with the quivering man. "I'm a monster. I'm your worst fucking nightmare," he snarled, grabbing the man by shoulder and hair. The man screamed as Mitchell's knee came up, the sound becoming a moan and a bloody gurgle as his nose and mouth crunched under the impact. He sagged to the ground, clutching the remains of his face and curled up on the tarmac.

Mitchell swayed, the adrenaline clearing from his body and leaving him suddenly drained. He was hungry; God he was hungry. He could smell the blood pouring from the man's nose and it made his head spin. He raked his hands through his hair and clutched the back of his neck, watching him: considering. It would be so easy to toss the body over the railing and into the sea and hopefully it would be a day or two before it was washed ashore. If he was lucky the body would be decomposed enough to disguise his part in the death. He closed his eyes, trembling, as his eyes turned black once more beneath the lids, then opened them abruptly as he sensed movement behind him.

"Who's there?" Was that another of the youths who had followed him?

"What...what are you?" A hesitant voice came from the shadows. Not one of this one's friends then – that was a girl's voice.

"Who's there? Show yourself."

A slight figure stepped from a doorway. "Don't hurt me, I don't mean any harm."

He could smell her already, his senses heightened by his recent vampire state. There was another werewolf in Barry, who would have thought it? As she stepped out into the light, he recognised her. It was Cerys, Gareth's sister. Jesus, so both of them were werewolves? He had only seen her from a distance before when she had come to put posters of Gareth up around the pleasure park and Riley had pointed her out to him. Mitchell thought Riley had a bit of a thing for Cerys. He hadn't got close enough then to smell the animal muskiness that distinguished a werewolf.

She recognised him too, and her eyes widened. "You work on the roller coaster; I've seen you. You're a friend of Riley's. You said you were a monster; what _are_ you? You're not-"

Not what? A werewolf? No, he wasn't one of them, thank God. Filthy dogs. "I'm nothing, nothing. I was trying to scare them. They thought they'd seen...something. It must have been a trick of the light – something like that. What are you doing out here alone after dark?"

Cerys flinched, a look of anguish crossing her face. "I come out most nights. I can't sleep. I have to look for Gareth. Someone somewhere knows what has happened to him." She sniffed and drew the back of her hand across her eyes. "I can't just give up on him. Do you understand?"

"Yeah, I understand."

"What was that about?" She tilted her head towards the man who was starting to stagger along the waterfront, clutching his face and casting anxious looks back towards Mitchell as he made his escape.

"Some jerks who don't take kindly to outsiders. Let me see you home. Saturday nights there are some pretty drunk people about." He wasn't about to feed from the man with a young female werewolf watching him; in fact the urge to feed at all had disappeared with the overpowering smell of dog in his nostrils. At least he wouldn't have trouble with blood lust from his current companion. She nodded briefly and they walked in silence until she turned into the door of a small house about a mile away from the docks.

"This is it. Thanks." In the light of the streetlamp he could see how pale and thin she was. Herrick's bloody dog fight – she was worried half out of her mind. He felt sorry for her in spite of himself, little enough that he liked people with her condition.

"Are you...OK...you know?"

"For now. I've found a job at one of the ice cream parlours in town. I'm managing for now on what I earn and the rent's paid till the end of the month but if he doesn't come back," she swallowed hard, "I don't know. I just don't know what I'll do."

"I'm sure Gareth's fine," he told her softly, "I just feel it."

She smiled wistfully. "Me too," but there was no belief in her voice. Somewhere deep inside her she had accepted that he was gone for good.

"Hey, try to get some sleep, yeah?"

Mitchell lit up a cigarette as he watched her go inside. So, another werewolf – that could be worth knowing about – and she had led him right to her door, quite literally. She was sister to the one they already had too. His vampire mind was processing the possibilities. He wondered if female werewolves had ever been used in dog fights before and whether anyone had ever tried a fight between a male and a female wolf, far less a brother and sister. Dog fights might be less boring in future, he mused.

ooooo

Mitchell wasn't looking for trouble at work a few days later, but it found him all the same.

It came in the shape of a girl on her own in the queue – young and petite, wearing a floral summer dress and with her light brown hair casually scraped up into a pony tail. "You on your own, sweetheart? Want me to ride with you, keep you company? It's fast and exciting when you ride with me."

A couple of boys behind her caught the double meaning and chuckled to themselves, nudging each other and bringing the solo girl out in a pinkish flush. She dropped her eyes and tried to brush past him towards the carriages, but he followed her over and leaned across her to check her seat belt. "I'm sorry. Did I embarrass you? I didn't mean to." Her skin smelled so nice up close: sort of sweet, like she'd been eating toffee apple or candy floss.

"Oh, they'd been loud and obnoxious all the way through the queue, making snide comments and having a dig. You just gave them a reason to be even worse." She seemed upset, like she was a sensitive sort who maybe wouldn't appreciate the mildly coarse humour he normally sprinkled into his interactions with the customers. He'd spotted that in her a bit too late. She seemed young for her years, quiet and with a hint of loneliness about her. He watched for her when the carriage returned.

"Was it OK?" He leaned across again, under the pretext of helping her undo the seat restraint, and once again her scent hit him. She smelled so good. Not blood good - just good. He helped her out of the carriage, then on impulse said, "I'm on a break in ten minutes. If you meet me at the ride entrance I'll buy you a pop or something. Say sorry, you know."

They were sitting in an Italian ice cream parlour nearby with a sundae and a Coke each when she confided, "I was going to go in a minute. You were a lot more than ten minutes and I thought you'd been teasing me." She bit her lip. "Everyone teases me."

"No way. I was just making sure someone was covering my break. Why does everyone tease you?"

"Because I'm not cool like they are. My parents died in a car accident and Nana and Gramps took me in. I guess they're a bit old-fashioned, so I don't get to do some of the stuff other kids do. They let me come here to the funfair sometimes, or sit with them at the beach for a bit, but I don't get to go to the dances or the cinema or anything like the other kids my age seem to do."

He became aware of people in the ice cream parlour watching them and began catching odd bits of murmured conversations. People speculating about them, about him – didn't he know that she was the local weirdo? What was someone who looked like him doing sitting with someone like her? A couple of girls were making eyes at him from the corner table and he noticed Barbara noticing them.

"I used to go to school with them. They were positively horrid to me all the way through. I don't know if I'm glad they've seen me with you or not: it looks like they fancy you and they'll find some way of making my life hell for it. They don't want me to have any friends. It doesn't fit in with their plan for me." Her voice had taken on a bitter tinge by the end.

That would explain the loneliness then. He knew how she felt, sometimes. Sometimes he craved ...not love, he wasn't sure vampires could even feel love, but companionship at least: someone to share stuff with who wasn't Herrick or Seth or Marco. He had tried, years before, but his attempt to get himself some "company" hadn't gone down at all well with Herrick, and he had never tried to form any attachments since. Memories of his few days with Irene had been flitting through his mind for the previous couple of weeks, reminding him of simpler, happier times. Just sitting with Barbara was...nice. Normal.

He liked this girl –Barbara, she told him her name was – and by the time he went back to work, twenty minutes late and with an irate Riley greeting him with a face like thunder, he had arranged to pick her up the following afternoon to take her out for a walk. He'd have her Nana and Gramps to contend with, he figured, but they couldn't be any scarier than Herrick, surely? And he'd deal with Herrick's opinion of him taking a human girl out without intending to feed from her if it came to that. A small part of him liked the thought that he was sticking a metaphorical two fingers up at his mentor; it would serve him right for favouring Seth over him.

ooooo

Irene replaced the telephone receiver and sighed loudly. Mitchell glanced over from where he was reading the newspaper, "Bad news?"

"Oh, not bad so much as inconvenient. Niall who does my garden was supposed to be cutting back the trees this afternoon, but he's strained his back and the doctor says he's to rest for the next couple of weeks. I can do the lower thinner branches myself, but the higher ones will need the ladder and some of them will take sawing. I wouldn't mind so much, but the neighbours are starting to complain that they are blocking their light, and I don't like being on bad terms with people."

He put down the newspaper. "I can do it, if you have the ladder and saw here."

"Really? You wouldn't mind?" Irene was clearly relieved.

"I'm not working today, so I may as well make myself useful."

When he returned from pruning it was to find her pottering around the lounge humming along with a tune on the record player. "Call me a silly old woman, but I've looked out this record to play to you. It's called Rose of Picardy and they played it when your father took me out, that leave in 1917." It was a very old recording, scratchy and unclear, but as the band played and she started to tap her feet and hum the tune Mitchell could see the twenty year old girl he had known. He remembered the song, of course; the version he had known had had vocals, not just the instrumental band version that Irene was playing. It had been everywhere; all the dance halls played it and he had even heard it coming from the mess back in France on occasions. He started to hum along and she commented, "Surely you're too young to remember this?"

"No, I don't, but it's a good tune. I like it."

"It was one of my favourites, so when they brought it out again I had to have it. I don't often listen to it any more, but I still like it. Anyway, enough of me being a sentimental old bat. If you are done with the trees, could you put the stepladder over below the loft hatch for me, please? I need to get Jack's cricket gear down from the loft for the charity match they are running over at the cricket ground soon. Janice will fetch it down for me when she comes around."

Mitchell moved the ladder as requested and climbed up, pushing the loft hatch aside at the top. "What am I looking for, exactly?"

"Oh you are a love. There are three, I think, yes three bags of cricket gear – stumps and bails and bats and the like. Some pads and so on too. They were my late husband's and they come out each year for the charity match." She could hear him, moving about in the loft space, and soon there were three large bags in the hallway. "While you are up there, dear, can you see if you can find a cardboard box tied up with string? It shouldn't be far away from where the cricket stuff was." That followed the bags down and Mitchell descended knocking dust from his sleeves.

Irene unknotted the string and started looking through the contents of the box, finally drawing out an old faded photograph and handing it silently to Mitchell. He knew what it was before she passed it to him; they had had their photograph taken at the dance. He had never seen it; the photographer had taken it to develop and he had been back in France by the time the print was ready.

"You really are remarkably like him, you know," commented Irene.

"Yes, it's been said before," he murmured, holding the corners of the photograph carefully and looking at the picture of himself from before Herrick. He looked so very young but there was a haunted look in his eyes that had nothing to do with vampirism and everything to do with having seen more than any man of his age should ever have seen, and having fought for nearly three years in appalling conditions. She was attractive and aglow and he could see in her face that she was allowing herself to believe she was falling in love with the handsome soldier next to her. His hand was protectively on her arm, and they smiled out of the picture as if they hadn't a care in the world.

"Take it," she said, impulsively pressing it into his hand.

"I couldn't."

"Do you have any pictures of him?"

"Well...no." Herrick had made him destroy his belongings when he recruited him, so he had no pictures of himself or his family and never would have now, since vampires didn't show up on film. "But I couldn't take it if it's your only photograph of him."

"It's been in the loft these many years," she said, "and sometimes it's painful to look at. I'm so young in it, and then I look in the mirror and I'm shocked to see I don't look like that any more. You'll know what I mean when you're my age. It goes so fast. Your brothers and sisters might like to see it too."

"Thank you. I'll take good care of it." And with a smile he left her alone. When he went out of the front door to go and collect Barbara later, she was listening to the record again, and from her expression she was a long, long way away.


	6. Chapter 6

**I'm loving all the theories you're coming up with so far. Most of you have got a part of the outcome right, but no-one has got it spot on yet. A bit of a laid-back chapter this one, but the mayhem is coming, don't worry.**

**As always, reviews appreciated. :)**

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><p>Mitchell rang on the doorbell of the house and waited patiently till he heard footsteps along the corridor. He could see a figure approaching, distorted through the partly-glassed front door.<p>

Barbara opened it, and he gave her what he hoped was a confident smile as she let him in. "They're waiting for you in the lounge," she said. She led him down the hallway and into the room. A large bay window shrouded with velvet curtains and capacious sofas with chintz loose covers dominated the room. Barbara went to sit on one, and two elderly people occupied another. Mitchell waited awkwardly, unsure whether to sit or stand. Jesus, this was like an interview. He fixed the smile more securely on his face and advanced towards her grandfather, hand out ready to shake.

"Pleased to meet you, sir, I'm John Mitchell and I've come to collect Barbara." He gave her an encouraging glance and she dimpled at him. So far so good, then.

"We wanted to meet you before you took her out. She maybe told you she was given into our care in unfortunate circumstances and we take our responsibilities seriously. Very seriously indeed, John."

Mitchell licked his lips nervously. "You can rest assured I'll take good care of her, sir. She'll be quite safe with me." He surprised himself that he genuinely meant it. Most situations like this he had engineered to be able to feed, but he was fully intending to see her safely back to her grandparents at the end of the afternoon.

"She'll be back by four o'clock." It was a statement, not a question, and Barbara's grandfather fixed him with a steely stare. "This is a test for you, young man. If you don't keep your word this time, we won't give you a second chance.

"Four o'clock absolutely at the latest, sir, you have my word on it." He hadn't called anyone 'sir' as often since 1917.

They escaped from the lounge a few minutes later, and all but ran down the road, Barbara holding Mitchell's hand and giggling helplessly. "Oh my goodness, the look on your face was a picture! I could hardly stop myself from laughing."

"They are just from a different time, that's all. Things were done differently then." His time, he reminded himself, when "walking out" with a girl was a necessary prelude to a more formal relationship. Thank God things had changed since then. The last time he had taken anyone out like this it had been Irene, and she had clearly hoped it would go further, despite the brief time they had been acquainted. But it had been wartime, and things had happened differently then, too.

They walked and talked, Barbara telling him a lot about herself and her parents and grandparents and him sharing as little as he could get away with. Her father had been in the second world war, she told him, and her grandfather in the first. He wondered where her grandfather had served, but it wouldn't pay to show too much interest. To the casual observer they looked like any other young couple in the early stages of courtship, and when he slipped his arm through hers she beamed as though she had won the jackpot.

When they sat on a bench to watch some children chasing the seagulls he pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and raised a questioning eyebrow at her. To his surprise she nodded, and he lit hers and then one for himself. It tasted good; he had needed a cigarette but hadn't wanted to smoke around her grandparents – they struck him as the sort of people who might disapprove. He inhaled eagerly, noticing that she was twirling it in her fingers, sometimes touching it to her lips, but never actually smoking it.

"Don't feel you've got to, just because I am. I mean, I won't think you're stupid or childish or anything if you don't."

She considered the cigarette thoughtfully, "Is it that obvious?"

He chuckled. "To a smoker, yes."

"It does look cool though, doesn't it? All the film stars seem to smoke. Maybe the other kids would take me more seriously if I smoked." She put the cigarette to her lips and inhaled determinedly, then coughed painfully and wiped tears away from watering eyes. "Good heavens," she managed to splutter, "How on earth do you get used to it?"

"Practice, I guess. I've been smoking so long now I don't even think about it." He held out his hand and she passed her cigarette over to him. "Listen, just don't, okay? I think your grandparents might file this under 'bad influence' and I'd like to be allowed to see you again."

"Really?" She sounded as if she couldn't believe her luck.

"Really. Can you come out with me on Wednesday?. I've got the day off. We could go for a walk or something: go down to the beach. We could even go out for a drive if your grandparents would trust you in a car with me."

She felt silent and he could feel her tensing next to him. After what had happened to her parents maybe that hadn't been a good suggestion.

"A walk down to the beach would be nice, thanks." She smiled and he grinned back at her. God only knew what Herrick would say to all this, but right now he didn't care.

ooooo

By Wednesday he found to his surprise that he was starting to look forward to seeing her. Barbara was a breath of fresh air in his increasingly stale world. In a bit of a busman's holiday, after walking down by the sea for a bit, they decided to head for the pleasure park. "Go on, please. I normally have to look really stupid and lonely riding everything by myself. It will be more fun with you there too. Please, Mitchell." He didn't take too much persuading - he actually really liked the atmosphere of the place: tacky but fun – and he found it hard to refuse Barbara anything.

The lad on the scenic railway grinned as Mitchell came to the front of the queue. "You alright, Mitch? You found yourself a lady friend I see." They had become good drinking buddies over the previous couple of weeks, often racing each other across to the nearest pub at park closing time. The youngster winked at Barbara, making her blush. "That'll be front row then, yeah?"

They settled into their seats, Mitchell aware of the closeness of her body and the nervous excitement she was exuding. The carriages set off, thundering round the wooden track. Barbara seemed nervous and he slipped his hand reassuringly over hers and wrapped his other hand protectively round her shoulders. On the big drop she screamed and buried her face in his chest.

Oh, this had been such a bad idea. The warmth where her body touched his was making her scent seem ever stronger: that scent of fear and exhilaration that lingered so tantalisingly in his nostrils. He tried to draw his arm away – to put some distance between them in a futile attempt to reduce his awareness of the blood pounding in her veins, but to no avail. This could have been the first ever vampire attack on a rollercoaster, but the ride was mercifully short and Mitchell stumbled, dazed, back out onto the platform.

"Bit fast for you, big man?" chuckled the lad as he helped Barbara out of the carriage and Barbara smiled back at him, clearly amused by the turn of events.

"Need to get some water," croaked Mitchell and he staggered out of the loading area and back out into the park. What he needed was more blood. Sometimes it seemed to him like he was on an endless road of death and killing; to stop himself killing Barbara, he needed to kill someone else. Someone else who was cared for - someone's parent: someone's child. So many years, spent finding someone expendible: someone who wouldn't be noticed or someone whose death could be covered up and glossed over, and for what? Was it all really worth it, after all? He was tired; the years felt heavy on his shoulders.

Barbara caught up with him out there, any hint of amusement replaced now by genuine concern. "Are you going to be all right?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine. I've been out in the sun all day and not eaten or drunk much..." Oh God, he'd not eaten much, no wonder the hunger had hit him like a sledgehammer. "Listen, can I see you home? I think I need to get out of the heat."

He knew she would be disappointed to have her afternoon out cut short, and as they said goodbye at the door he said impulsively, "Would you come to a dance at Bindles with me?"

Her eyes lit up. "But you can't get tickets to Bindles for love nor money. They sell out months in advance."

"One of the lads at the park works the door there most nights. He said he can get me in round the back. So, do you fancy it? Good. Saturday night, then." He barely got the door closed on her before he was doubled over in pain, the cramps tightening around his stomach like a belt pulled too tight. He had to get back to Herrick.

ooooo

Herrick took one look at him and led him off to one side to talk urgently to him. "You look dreadful. When did you last feed?"

"Last full moon."

"We need to get you fed. Get the car keys and meet me out front."

Mitchell drove, as usual, the act of driving taking his mind off the discomfort Barbara had caused in him, but even for him he was distracted, and Herrick wasn't one to miss things like that.

"You seem bothered about something, soldier."

"Really? No." Mitchell pretended to be absorbed in something in his rear view mirror then flicked a surreptitious glance in Herrick's direction.

"Seems to me it's the last few days especially. You've been a little odd since we got here and I put it down to seeing Mrs Griffiths – Irene, I should say – but the last few days you've been twitchy: secretive, even. Is there anything you want to tell me?"

"No," Mitchell tried his best to look perplexed, but suspected he was only looking guiltier than ever. "It's strange, you know – seeing Irene, I mean. She was the last person who meant anything to me. I mean...I had friends there, in the army I mean, but she was the last person...you know..." He shrugged. "She was the last human I formed any sort of real relationship with before...this...happened."

"So you thought you'd see if you could still do it now?"

"What?"

"Well that's what this is all about, isn't it? You meet the last human you liked, maybe loved a little, yes? So you start wondering if you can still have all that. Who is she?"

"She's not... there's no-one. Christ, Herrick, I was talking about Irene. Where did this come from?"

"Ah yes, the lovely Mrs Griffiths, who held more than a little flame for John Mitchell, I suspect." Herrick fixed the fatherly look on his face Mitchell knew meant he was going to be given another lecture on how to be a vampire. "You are at that awkward stage, Mitchell. We begin to be aware our contemporaries are aging: dying. Give it a few years, it becomes easier again. All our connections are gone; everyone we ever knew has passed away and we can get on with the business of being vampires without that annoying little voice inside us wondering what our families and lovers are doing – how many of them are still around."

"Yeah, I suppose," Mitchell acknowledged grudgingly, "And you know, she has a family: kids and stuff. I suppose I thought I would too, someday."

"It's my fault. I should have moved us as soon as I realised you had known her. Most vampires go through that stage to one degree or another. You just seem to be hit with it worse than most. It's hard, but it gets easier. You let go of that last little human part of you, however deep it's buried, and truly embrace what it is to be a vampire."

"But I have, Herrick. I really have already. You know that. I love it." A thought occurred to Mitchell and he blurted out, "Is that why I'm here?"

Herrick laughed quietly to himself, "Have you gone all existential on me?"

"No, why I'm here, instead of in Bristol. If I'm your second-in-command, why is Seth running things there?

"So that's part of the mood too, eh? Are you jealous of Seth? I said right-hand man, Mitchell, not second-in-command – you are here with me because that's where I want you. Where you can back me up – help me out with ideas, be around when I need you. Seth has his uses, but as a wing man he has his limitations: lack of basic intelligence being only one of them."

"Seth said you didn't trust me. That you wanted me where you could keep an eye on me."

"Do you know why I want to keep an eye on you? Because I'm your sire and you're my responsibility. I made you, Mitchell, and that brings with it obligations – a duty of care – and I take that very seriously. Of the three of you: you, Seth and Marco, you're the only one I sired, so you'll always be important to me. And this business with Irene shows I am right to keep you close – that you've not fully matured as a vampire yet."

They drove the rest of the way in silence, Mitchell considering whether Herrick was right and he was still trying to cling to some last vestige of humanity. When they got to Cardiff they picked off a couple of the builders working on the new swimming pool for the Empire Games. That was another job for the Cardiff vampires to cover up: some tragic accident on the scaffolding, no doubt. Killing together always brought them closer, and the atmosphere on the way back was much more relaxed.

When they returned, Mitchell tugged off his shirt and vest, tossed them to the floor and lay on his bed staring at the ceiling. His head whirled with thoughts of Irene and Barbara and what Herrick had said about his contemporaries aging and dying while he lived on, unchanging. When sleep finally overcame him, it was filled with disturbing dreams of a woman whose face changed from Irene's to Barbara's and back again, and Mitchell was slowly drinking her dry as her eyes watched him, transfixed with horror.


	7. Chapter 7

**Having built it all up, I now get to start knocking it all down again, which is the fun bit! :-D**

**Apologies if Riley's line in this offends anyone. I did hesitate about using it when that line popped up, but in all honesty it needed something pretty brutal to get a reaction out of Mitchell, so it stands.**

**Hope you are enjoying it - looks like it will run to 11, maybe 12 chapters in total.**

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><p>When Barbara's grandparents gave her permission to go out to her first dance with Mitchell and to stay out till ten o'clock 'and not a minute later' he was sure they didn't anticipate he would take her to a bar beforehand, nor what she would ask him to order for her.<p>

"I'd like a dry white wine, please."

He wanted to ask if that was really what she wanted or if, like the cigarette, she would sooner have a Coke or something and enjoy it rather than suffer to be sophisticated. Still, he brought back one for her and one for himself; he was more of a beer man usually, but Herrick had insisted he acquire a taste for wine so he was less obvious in certain social circles. The fuss the barman made you'd have thought he had asked for something exotic: maybe white wine _was_ considered exotic in Barry Island, but they tracked down a bottle from somewhere and he made his way back to their table.

His suspicions about her choice of drink were confirmed when he brought the wine back and she took a sip and screwed up her face. "Oh, that's dreadful! Really nasty."

So she _would_ have been better off with a soft drink then? He tried a taste himself and grimaced. "You're right, that's really not nice. Here let me take it back."

"Not from around here, are you? Look mate, do you know how often we get asked for white wine in here?" The barman's expression told Mitchell exactly what he thought of dry white wine, especially when one of the glasses was obviously being drunk by a man, for heaven's sake. Any self-respecting man would be drinking beer, and plenty of it. "Not very bloody often, that's how often. So take yourself back off to your table and be grateful we found you any white wine at all rather than quibble it's not the right vintage or whatever your problem is. We don't appreciate trouble makers around here." Great, so after being educated by Herrick on the finer points of wines in Paris in the thirties, he was now having his palate exposed to whatever cheap plonk the pubs and clubs of Barry could supply. Seemed like he was better off sticking with beer; you couldn't go too far wrong with that.

Mitchell returned to their table with an apologetic expression, a glass of lemonade and a pint of Worthington's. "Seems like there isn't much appreciation for white wine around here, so you can either stick with what you've got, or I got you this." He set down the beer in front of her and took a sip from the lemonade, his eyes twinkling mischievously over the top of the glass. She played along, sipping a little off the top of his pint and smiling up at him, froth from the beer coating her upper lip. She giggled, wiping her lip on the back of her hand and pushing the glass across to him, "I think you can have this. I'll stick with the lemonade and look the loser everyone here thinks I am."

"I don't think you're a loser." He reached across and put his hand over hers. She smiled at him, and made no attempt to take it away. "And you missed a bit." He reached across with his free hand and wiped away a smudge of foam with his thumb.

He knew Herrick had his suspicions; he knew he was getting in deeper than he should. But sitting there with Barbara seemed the most natural thing in the world. She was everything he wasn't - young, innocent, naive – but he was comfortable with her, her youthful charm an antidote to the constant bloodshed and conflict amongst the vampires. Heaven knew, had been the source of a lot of it and much of the time he had revelled in it, especially early on when he had established his reputation for bloodshed and carnage, but just recently he had craved some peace from it all. He let his touch linger, cupping her cheek with his hand and she nuzzled into it, a gentle smile on her face. He should make his apologies, he knew: take her home, let her down gently, leave her alone to find someone who could give her what he was unable to. But he couldn't: not yet.

ooooo

They cut quite a dash at the dance, Barbara in her best frock and Mitchell in a dark suit with his hair slicked back. Neither of them were much for dancing, preferring to sit and people-watch and only occasionally venture out onto the floor themselves.

Even sitting quietly and chatting over drinks they attracted a fair bit of attention, not all of it good. Mitchell was drawing many admiring looks from the women present, who were talking behind their hands, apparently about Barbara, and their menfolk looked less than impressed about the attention their dates were paying to Mitchell. Thankfully Barbara seemed oblivious, so happy was she to be at a dance with Mitchell. Either that or she was used to studiously ignoring any negative attention; Mitchell couldn't decide which.

He delivered her home to her grandparents practically on the stroke of ten, stopping on the doorstep to press a quick kiss to her cheek. She blushed and squeezed his hand, and then turned and went through the door to where her grandparents were waiting for her. Mitchell leaned up against their garden wall and lit up a cigarette, glancing up as a light went on in a window above him and then a figure pulled the curtains across, not noticing him standing quietly outside.

How different to the girl outside the bar at full moon, he reflected; how like his date with Irene forty years before.

ooooo

At opening time at the Pleasure Park, Riley laughed as Mitchell, bleary-eyed, leaned up against the wall and yawned widely. On his return from Bindles Herrick had kept him up late, excitedly talking about his plans for continuing the dog fights beyond their stay. It looked like they would be returning to Bristol a day or two after the next full moon, but Cardiff had already offered him the opportunity to return – news of the success of their first one had evidently spread. Mitchell hadn't got to bed till 2am in the end and then he had lain awake wondering what to do about Barbara, and he was feeling the effects of a night with little sleep. Riley had placed a different interpretation on his tiredness, though.

"You not getting much sleep, Mitchell? She more of a goer than she looks?"

"What?" Mitchell pushed himself upright.

"Don't go all coy on me, mate. It's all over town you're fucking the retard."

He was up against the wall with Mitchell's hands round his throat before he knew what had hit him. "Hey, woah there!"

"You do _not_ talk about her like that. You know nothing about her: nothing, do you hear me? And it's not like that; it's not like that at all." He released Riley, who rubbed ruefully at his neck.

"Hey, man, we just thought, you know . You two seemed to be getting pretty cosy and you don't seem the type to hang around, Mitch, if you get my drift."

If that was how things were being seen by the local youngsters then Mitchell befriending Barbara might make things worse for her rather than better. He had hoped being seen out and about might make her more sociable, that she might even make some friends her own age, but conclusions had obviously been drawn. Mitchell had to admit they made an unlikely couple – no-one would have thought him as unworldly as her, but on balance she was better off being seen as the local nutter than the local slut.

He would be gone from Barry soon, if the conversation with Herrick the previous night was correct, so maybe he should let her down gently now, rather than risk a painful parting later. He had been wrong to risk her becoming attached to him; he was fond of her, but it was never going to be more than that. She was sweet and everything, and he enjoyed taking her out, but he wasn't about to get involved with a human; that would get way too complicated. And the hint from Herrick that he had guessed what was going on was gnawing away at him; Herrick wouldn't like this one bit and Mitchell was all too aware that Herrick would be ruthless with Barbara if he found out about her.

In the back of his mind he knew he was drawn to her because she reminded him of Irene, but the two girls although physically similar could hardly have been more different. Irene had been sweet, but with an edge to her forged in the field hospitals in France. They had all seen things they shouldn't have: the young people caught up in that war. They had gone out naive and innocent and come back changed: some more than others, he reflected. Irene had understood him; Barbara never would, if she even could. Better to get out now, and avoid anyone getting any more hurt than he could help.

ooooo

Irene Griffiths knocked and listened. She was pretty sure they were both out; Mitchell normally headed straight out to work after breakfast and although Herrick sometimes read the newspaper in the lounge first, he wasn't normally too far after him. His business kept him busy, whatever it was.

No, there was no answering call from inside, so she drew out her bunch of keys and unlocked Mitchell's door. She did her usual circuit of the room, emptying the bin and opening the window to let some fresh air in. It was the day she changed the sheets and towels, so she stripped the bed quickly, stooping to pull the sheet away where it was caught on the corner of the mattress. Some clothes lay discarded on the floor under the bed and she smiled indulgently; her son had always been the messy type too – clothes everywhere. It seemed Mitchell was the same.

She bent to pick up the clothes – a shirt and vest – from the floor, but froze when she noticed the state of them. The fronts were stained a deep reddish brown. It could only be blood, she decided, and in large quantities at that. A nose-bleed, maybe? It must have been a heavy one if so, the poor boy. What a shame he hadn't given them to her to wash when it happened; chances were he would never get the stains out now; maybe that was why they were discarded under the bed – he couldn't quite bring himself to throw them out yet. But, she considered, she could try; even now, she might just be able to make them wearable again, if a little the worse for their experience. She tucked them away in her cleaning basket. That would be a nice surprise for him, if she could give them back to him clean again.

ooooo

"Hey," Mitchell slid into the seat opposite Barbara in a booth of their favourite ice cream parlour. He'd slipped out to meet her for his lunch break and there was a feeling like lead in the pit of his stomach. This wasn't going to be fun for either of them.

"Hey," she responded, her eyes lighting up at the sight of him. Oh God, this was going to be hard. The kid had had a tough enough time as it was, without him being a bastard to her too. He bought the ice creams and drinks. The least he could do was let her eat ice cream before shattering her illusions of him.

"They were hoping you wouldn't show up," she glanced at a group of girls at one of the window tables. "It would have made a good story for their mates if you'd stood me up."

"I wouldn't do that," he said gruffly. "I might not be great at turning up on time, but I turn up." He shovelled down a few spoonfuls of ice cream before continuing, "Not that I'm going to be around much longer."

She paused, ice cream part way to her mouth. "What do you mean, you're not going to be around?"

He steadied himself; this wasn't going to go well. "Well, you know I'm not from around here and it's going to be time for me to move on soon, so I figured..." She just looked at him, sadness gathering like clouds in her eyes. She was going to make him say it, wasn't she? She wasn't going to let him off the hook: walk away quietly. Why should she? This mess was all his fault; he had led her on. He had let himself think he could behave like normal people, have relationships like normal people – and he just couldn't. Herrick and Seth and Marco – they were his family now. He was destined to squabble with Seth for ever, like two siblings jostling for a parent's affections. Damn it!

"Barbara, I don't want you to get hurt. This is nothing to do with you: you're a lovely girl, but you're starting to... You're starting to get attached to me and that can't happen. Can't you see? I'm not staying here – we don't have a future togther. You need to find someone who will stick around and be what you need them to be." Someone who will be human with you.

He could see the tears starting to gather in her eyes. "Are you breaking up with me?" Her expression twisted a knife in his guts; she looked devastated. He wanted so much to gather her into his arms and tell her no, it had all been a terrible mistake: he loved her and he would take care of her whatever the rest of them thought.

"Yes, I guess I am. I can't see you any more, Barbara." He couldn't meet her eyes. He'd taken a damaged girl under his wing and now it fell to him to damage her far more than anyone else had managed before. She gulped back tears, pushed her chair back and ran for the door, barely crossing the threshold before the wrenching sobs escaped her. The shop fell silent, watching her run up the street, then all eyes turned to Mitchell, who sat slumped over the table with his head on his forearms. Gradually a low buzz of conversation returned as people speculated about what they had seen and watched Mitchell for any signs of a reaction.

"Girlfriend trouble?" He looked up to see a girl looking sympathetically down at him. She looked vaguely familiar and then it hit him: it was Cerys, the werewolf's sister. She had said she'd found a job in an ice cream parlour: just his luck it was this one.

Mitchell dashed a hand through his hair. "She's not my girlfriend," he said, picking up his spoon and pushing the remains of his sundae around the dish. Ice cream – well, anything starchy or sugary, really - normally helped with the blood cravings, but he didn't fancy it any more. He threw the spoon down and pushed the bowl away in disgust.

She chuckled and nodded towards the door, "Yes, I gathered from the melodramatic exit."

"No, she was never my girlfriend. I mean...it was complicated." Mitchell groaned. "This will be all round town by tonight, won't it?"

"Not from me, but maybe from them," she flicked a glance at the group of giggling girls who were making their way out of the door and along the road the same way Barbara had just fled, and Mitchell buried his face in his hands.

"What a mess. Jesus."


	8. Chapter 8

**Clouds gather; trouble threatens. **

**Thanks for the support for this fic - I've been overwhelmed by the reviews and I'm happy you are invested in the characters. I've started to get very fond of them. But nonetheless, we must crack on with the character torturing; it's downhill all the way now...**

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><p>Irene liked her little rituals: the tables laid out just so for breakfast and the washing going on every morning. The weather was fine and warm and all the downstairs windows were open to let the fresh air flood in. The back door was open and she was pegging washing out on the line, taking pleasure from the rows of freshly laundered sheets and pillowcases. She pulled Mitchell's shirt out of the basket; it had come up quite well after a couple of washes and a bit of bleach. There was still a bit of a stain there if you looked hard, but it would be wearable at least. That must have been a nasty nosebleed he'd had, to make that much of a mess.<p>

A rumble above alerted her to a sash window being rolled up in Mitchell's bedroom. He had come in looking upset the night before and had gone straight to his room. Girl trouble, she expected; he certainly had the looks to attract the ladies, just like his father. But he had woken up in a better mood, it seemed; he had been his usual charming self at breakfast, devouring the mountain of toast she now knew to provide for him. He was still feeling chirpy, by the sounds of it. She could hear him bustling about getting ready for work, throwing open drawers and humming to himself. She smiled as she recognised the tune: bless him, he'd remembered that song she had played him: the one she had danced to with his father all those years before. But then she froze. The humming had turned into soft singing and then she heard the words clearly as he stood near the open window for the final few lines: words she had known so well when she was a young woman and he had denied knowledge of when she had played it to him:

And the roses will die with the summertime  
>And our paths may be far, far apart<br>But there's one rose that dies not in Picardy  
>'Tis the rose that I keep in my heart!<p>

ooooo

Without Barbara to distract him, Mitchell set about unravelling the mystery of the scenic railway's ghost. Leastways, he didn't have Barbara distracting him in her usual way, but Barry Island was a small place and he seemed to run across her quite often, to say nothing of the amount of time she spent hanging around the pleasure park. If he hadn't known better, he'd have thought she was stalking him, unable to accept when he had said he couldn't see her again he had meant it. Jesus, it wasn't like he was a bloody teenager any more.

He'd taken to wandering around the back of the ride on his breaks; it was a good place to have a sneaky cigarette without Riley or any of the others cadging one off him. Mitchell didn't mind sharing his smokes with someone in need, but it seemed to him Riley just blagged his cigarettes off whichever mug he could talk out of one. On his wanders he often wondered about the ghost that was supposed to haunt the ride. Ghosts were notoriously hard to track down; they had no smell, unlike werewolves who stank to vampires, and were pretty much invisible to all but other supernaturals. They were interesting though, and he had encountered a couple in his time.

While on one of these breaks he noticed a worn track up the side of the railway. It didn't seem to be near any of the usual maintenance stairs, and his curiosity was piqued. He knew better than to try to check it out with the ride running, though; anyone spotting him up on the scenery while the punters were riding was the quickest way to lose his job he could think of.

That evening he decided to check it out. He headed off out of the park at closing time with Riley as usual, heading for the Marine for an after work drink, but stopped abruptly and made a show of checking the pockets of his jacket. "Damn! Left my wallet." He knew Riley wasn't about to sub him the cost of his drinks, tight git that he was. "I'll go back and look for it. Tell Charlie on the gate I'm still here. I'll catch you in the bar later." He chanced his arm with one last comment, "and get a pint of Worthington's in for me, yes?" He smirked at Riley's look of alarm. God, he really was a tightwad.

Out of sight of the others he stretched his stride, eating up the yards between himself and the track. Where the track ran out there was no sign of anything: nothing but a faint trace of the smell he had come to associate with werewolves: a slight tang of wet dog in the air. So if there was nothing visible above the ground, the obvious solution was beneath his feet. He stamped, hearing the hollowness below him. Was there a way in?

He felt around, fingertips questing for an opening, closing his eyes to concentrate on the surface better. There – was there an edge? – a slight seam he could feel, but not see? He followed the crack up, searching for a way in. His fingertips finally worked their way under the fabric and he lifted a sheet of canvas to reveal a hatch in the side. Bingo!

Mitchell lifted the hatch, recoiling as the smell hit him: a musty airless smell, with a hint of something that had crawled in there and died and the unmistakeable odour of werewolf. It wasn't fresh, though; it seemed the werewolf, whichever of the two had been down here, hadn't been here for a while.

He couldn't see far in the small shaft of light that came through the hatch, but he could see enough. A wooden support with the unmistakeable gash marks that signalled the presence of a fully transformed lyco; one or both had spent their full moons down here. No hint of ghost, either. The security man's story of a ghost that howled from time to time had been a wolf transforming here every four weeks, trying to claw its way out through the scenery to wreak havoc outside.

So this was their hideaway: their bolthole. And there was another full moon coming up soon. That had to be worth knowing.

ooooo

The postman brought several letters the following morning, but only one bore a London postmark and that one Irene tucked into the pocket of her apron to read in private. Once all the breakfasts had been served and all the guests had gone off for their day's activities she ripped the envelope open, glancing at the header on the notepaper before quickly scanning the body of the text. At the end, she crumpled the letter in her fist and sat on the sofa chewing on her knuckles, barely holding back tears. This changed everything.

As usual, she went up to the bedrooms when the dining room was cleared and all the washing up done, but this time she was planning to search Mitchell's room, not clean it. She shook as she stood in the doorway – stupid, she told herself, she had been in there every day to spruce it up, what did she expect had suddenly changed? Corpses under the bed maybe? Stupid woman! She realised she didn't even know what she was looking for – what would give her a clue what was going on? In all her years of running a guest house, she had never rifled through a guest's belongings, not once, and all her instincts screamed against it. Breach of trust, her mind shouted at her. But there was something awfully wrong here and before she could go to anyone with her suspicions, or confront Mitchell or Herrick, she needed more to go on.

His belongings, she supposed, would be the first place to start. He wasn't the tidiest guest she had ever had: clothes strewn across the chair and tumbling onto the floor. She started with the jacket, left behind on a hot summer's day. One deep pocket on either side, some loose change in one, carefully replaced – she didn't want to be accused of theft, whatever else she was doing – and in the other a box of matches, a half-eaten packet of sweets, some screwed up receipts and a pair of sunglasses; he'd be missing those today. All perfectly normal stuff – was she completely off the mark then?

She opened his wardrobe to find nothing unusual there either: a couple of suits, some jeans, another jacket, a selection of shirts – mostly white. Into the drawers of the bedside cabinet now and the top drawer was reluctant to open. She tugged; the drawer had been jammed shut with a hand towel inside. She had wondered what had happened to his hand towel; what on earth was it doing in there? Irene pulled it aside – only the Gideon Bible below, nothing else. The other drawers contained only what she would have expected – underwear, socks, handkerchiefs: all the things which any twenty-something year old man might be expected to have. By the side of his bed, the photograph she had given him stood propped up against the reading light. She picked it up and looked once more. Surely she had to be wrong?

Irene made sure everything was as she had left it and crept back out onto the landing, listening intently for any sounds of anyone returning to the house. Her hand hovered over the handle of Herrick's room. Any mystery about Mitchell's identity involved him too, and she unlocked the door and gingerly pressed down on the handle.

Herrick's room as ever was faultlessly neat and tidy: clothes folded up and put away or hung carefully in the wardrobe. The only things left lying around were a spare pair of shoes tucked beside the bed and a book with the page marked about half way through. A quick scan through the drawers of the bedside cabinet revealed similar contents to next door – and again the top drawer was reluctant to open. This time it was a newspaper that was causing the obstruction and again, only the Gideon Bible below it.

She was about to give up and dismiss her ideas as so many paranoid delusions when she noticed the sheet of paper being used as a bookmark. Irene lifted the book and put it on the bed taking careful note of the page number, then picked up the paper to read it. It was a letter, written in blue fountain pen, and it read: "We caught the dog last night. He's in the cage at the warehouse. Shall I tell the others that the fight is on?"

Dog fighting? That wasn't what she had thought they would be involved in at all. Even the thought sickened her; dog fighting was a despicable so-called sport, to say nothing of being illegal. The police would want to hear about this, for sure, but first she needed to find out where this warehouse was. If that was the note she had given Herrick at breakfast, and she thought it was, that had been three weeks or more ago and they had had time to cover their tracks. If she reported her guests to the police and there was no foundation to her allegations it could damage her reputation, to say nothing of the ill-will it would cause between her and two otherwise irreproachable guests.

ooooo

Mitchell passed the food through the partly open door of the cage, leaving it on the floor while the werewolf waited at the far end of the enclosure. He locked the door again and pocketed the key. The smell still told him he was dealing with a werewolf, but in all other respects this was just the man that had held his job before him: the man whose sister was so desperately worried about him.

"I saw your sister. She misses you," Mitchell blurted the words out almost before he knew he had spoken and Gareth looked curiously at him. Apart from the screamed goadings at full moon and a few snarled curses the two had barely spoken before.

"You leave my sister out of this."

"She's been looking for you at the Pleasure Park. She's up there every few days asking after you, putting up posters – that sort of stuff."

"You stay away from my sister, d'you hear me? You leave her alone." Gareth's voice was as full of menace as one who had been caged for nearly four weeks could manage. "You filthy vampire, you keep your hands off her."

"Oh believe me, laying hands on her is the last thing on my mind: something to do with a little body odour problem your type have. But she loves you. She's worried about you."

"Love? What the fuck do you know about love?" Gareth leapt to his feet and roared through the bars at Mitchell. "You're cold-hearted bastards, the lot of you: watching people torn apart and calling it entertainment. You don't know the first thing about love. Dirty blood suckers. You leave her alone. Leave my sister alone!"

Mitchell closed his eyes and turned away. He certainly hadn't loved Barbara, nor any of the girls he had sweet-talked into bed since he was turned. He had thought he might be falling in love with Irene though, a long time ago. Was it even a possibility for him now? Was he never to feel that again in his life? Suddenly the prospect of decades and centuries of life without love seemed empty: pointless. "I did once," he muttered under his breath, hanging the key on its peg and turning to go. "I knew about love once."

ooooo

It didn't take long to find out where the warehouse was. Irene was well known in town and had plenty of contacts through church and it wasn't as if Barry Island was the biggest place. Strangers in town went largely unremarked, since there were tourists back and forth all summer, but Herrick and Mitchell had been around long enough to be noticed, especially with the company Mitchell was keeping; tongues had been wagging for a while already.

When she got there the place was deserted. The cage was there, outside at the back. It was huge: yards and yards wide. She had been expecting – well – a dog cage, no more than that, but this was more like an aviary or a pen at the zoo made of really stout industrial strength wire mesh. There was a blackboard to one side with times and odds on it: first blood, first limb. Oh heavens, what were these men doing here? She could hardly believe her eyes – how sick were they? First limb? Heart torn out? What sort of monsters were these people? And they had been staying in her house. She felt physically sick and sat down on a step, her head swimming.

Was that movement in the cage, or were her eyes playing tricks on her? She blinked, trying to refocus, and peered towards the back corner of the cage where _something_ was slowly starting to move. It wasn't a dog. Oh goodness, it wasn't a dog; it was way too big for a dog, and it was rising to stand on two legs, not four. Grubby and bedraggled, in ripped clothes and wrapped in a blanket, the figure was most certainly a man. But why was there a man in the cage?

"Who's there?" she gasped, her voice barely more than a whisper, then again more strongly this time, "Who's there? Who are you?" She struggled to her feet and crept cautiously towards the cage.

"You're not...you're not one of them," the man croaked. "Let me out. For God's sake let me out. They will make me fight again soon – it's coming again."

"They'll make you fight? Who will you fight? And why?" Irene paused, confused, "What's going on here? Who _are_ you?"

"My name is Gareth: Gareth Owen," the man said, "and I've been kept here for four weeks now. Please let me out before they come back. I've got a sister – she'll be desperate with worry. Please."

Gareth Owen? But she knew that name! That was the man who had gone missing from the funfair. And his sister – she was the one who had been in the local press appealing for people to come forward with information about him! "Why are they holding you here? Who are they? Is it Herrick and Mitchell doing this to you?" She hoped the answer would be no, but knew it would be yes.

"Those bastards!" He spat vigorously on the ground. "I hope they rot in hell. Listen, lady, I don't know who you are or how you know them, but for the love of God let me out of here. I've got to get to my sister. Mitchell knows her - knows where she lives – and it's only a matter of time before he goes for her. Please, you've got to let me out." He pulled on the wire, rattling the cage but having no effect; he was still held fast, as he knew he would be.

She looked around helplessly, "But how? I don't have the key."

He jerked his chin in the direction of a far wall. "It's over there. They hang it there so I can see it but I can't get to it."

Irene licked her lips. "What do they do? Why are you in here?"

"They make us fight. We fight till one of us dies, and then the next month we do it again," Gareth made a sobbing sound deep in his throat, "Please, I don't know who you are or why you are here, but please let me out. They will be back soon and it won't go well for you if they find you. Please just let me out and let's get out of here."

Irene made up her mind. She turned and walked on wobbly legs to the key, taking it off its ring and bringing it back with her. She had no idea what was going on here: talk of fights to the death and of Mitchell and Herrick involved somehow. It made no sense to her, but she had to let him out: that much was clear to her. Irene fumbled with the key as she tried to open the lock; she dreaded to think what would happen if she was found like this. If Mitchell and Herrick would treat Gareth this way, then what would they do to her?

A thought occurred to her: Gareth had said they fought till someone died, yet he was still here. Did that mean he had killed someone to survive?

"What are you? What are..._they_?"

Gareth scrutinised her face as she finally released the lock. She had the feeling he was weighing her up: testing her. He sighed. "I can't tell you. If I tell you, my sister and I are in more danger than ever, but I will tell you this; they are unnatural: inhuman." He pushed his way past the shocked woman and made for the exit, turning to speak to her one more time, "Take my advice: stay well away from them." And he was gone.


	9. Chapter 9

**Quick plea: if you do review this (please do) can you try not to make it too spoilery. Only I know some people read the reviews first and it would be a shame if they found out what happened before they read it. I'm sure you can find some way of reviewing without giving the game away. :)**

**Anyway, on with the story. Predictably, since Gareth is nowhere to be found, Herrick is not a happy bunny...**

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><p>Mitchell and Herrick returned to the warehouse to find an open cage and no werewolf. Bafflingly, the key was still on the nail where they had left it, and there was no sign of the lock having been forced. It was as if he had just walked out. They both knew who had been into the cage last, so they both knew who the prime suspect was for letting their prized werewolf escape.<p>

Herrick turned to Mitchell, his face contorted with anger. "So did you omit to tell me that this werewolf had a sideline in escapology, or did you just totally FUCK UP?" He lashed a blow at the side of Mitchell's face. Mitchell gave a cry, more of surprise than pain and staggered back, clutching his cheek. He looked reproachfully at Herrick, but retaliation never even entered his head. Herrick swore only once in a blue moon, but when he did, his vampires knew to keep their heads down and hope that the storm passed quickly.

"I locked it. I'm damn sure I locked it," he insisted, "Bloody hell, Herrick, that hurt." Mitchell looked across at the key hanging in its place. He remembered locking it, he was sure. He had put the key in his pocket and then hung it on the nail on his way out...hadn't he? He shook his head; he couldn't see any way that the werewolf could have got the key from him. He hadn't even come close.

Herrick was in full flow. "So he's the lyco version of Houdini then; funny how he never thought to demonstrate his talent till the worst possible moment, isn't it? Now we've got a few hours until the next full moon and no werewolf. You'd better find some convincing way of explaining that to all our expected visitors or jolly well get him back! Well, why are you still here? Get out there and find me a werewolf!"

ooooo

Mitchell's mind whirled as he left the warehouse. He was sure he had locked Gareth in and put the key back, but he was doubting himself now. The question was, how was he going to get them a werewolf for the fight, and on his own too. He could hardly expect Gareth to come quietly; he was a burly chap, nearly as tall as Mitchell and certainly broader and pissed off to boot: no way was he just going to get into the back of Mitchell's car for a please and a thank you.

Of course, Herrick hadn't specified which werewolf Mitchell was to fetch back. He had a feeling Herrick would go with any werewolf in his anxiety to run the fight as planned, and there was one that Mitchell knew of that he could get back to the warehouse a lot more easily than Gareth. The chances were Gareth had headed home first to look for Cerys and after that, Mitchell thought, he would probably head to the railway to see if she was there. That would buy him a little time. Cerys normally worked most days at the ice cream parlour; she had confessed to him that money was tight without Gareth and he knew she took any shifts she was offered to try to make ends meet. Now if only she was at work and not at home where Gareth would get to her first...

ooooo

_Please let her be working today_: Mitchell sent up a silent entreaty to whatever powers might be listening to a vampire in need. If she wasn't there she had probably been at the house and in all likelihood she and Gareth were already heading out of Barry. Then he'd be in deep shit with Herrick, whether it had been his fault or not. He rubbed the sore patch on his face grimly; Herrick didn't lash out often, but he had a good punch on him when he did and Mitchell's cheekbone had borne the brunt of the blow. He wiggled his jaw: nothing broken, he didn't think, but he was going to have one hell of a bruise.

He pushed open the door of the ice cream parlour. It was quiet – they hadn't long been open and the people wanting a mid-morning break hadn't yet started to drift in. Thank heavens, there she was, behind the counter. She looked startled at him, "You're in early, Mitchell. You not working today?"

"Not today. Listen, something's come up-"

"But you're hurt. What's happened?" She raised a gentle hand to his face and he flinched away.

"Those blokes you saw tried it on again last night. If you think that's bad you should see their faces. I need to talk to you." He grabbed her arm and pulled her in front of the counter, his face close to hers as he spoke quietly and insistently to her. "Listen, I've seen Gareth, I know where he is."

"Gareth?" Her face lit up with joy and wonderment. "He's alive? Why didn't he come and find me? Can you take me to him?"

"Yes, but listen, you need to do exactly as I say." He lowered his voice further and stared earnestly into her eyes. He took a deep breath; he had to be at his most convincing. "He came to the railway first thing this morning. He was in a right state and I told you I'd come and fetch you. He said he was taken by vampires and-"

"Vampires?" Cerys interrupted, her eyes wide. "But how – why?"

"He told me what you are, Cerys. He keeps saying the vampires are coming for both of you," he shrugged expressively, "It's a lot to take in – all this vampire and werewolf crap. It's like being in a horror movie all of a sudden. I told him to stay put and I'd come and get you. They won't be looking for me and he was convinced if he was seen on the streets they'd find him and kill him."

She moaned and put her hand to her mouth. "Thank God you helped him anyway; most people wouldn't want to help knowing... what we are," she looked at him gratefully. "So is he at the railway? I must go to him..." She tried to pull her arm away, but he stopped her, restraining her gently but firmly.

"I did it for you, Cerys, not for him. Gareth says they know about the railway. He says they'll be looking there for him and you have to stay away from it. Listen, I have him safe. There's a place where you can transform and everything. You'll both be fine there." Cerys didn't notice that Mitchell's smile didn't reach his eyes, so busy was she removing her apron and preparing to make her apologies to the owner. Years with Herrick had made Mitchell a very plausible liar.

He looked intently into her eyes. "You have to trust me, Cerys, it's your only chance. Do you trust me?"

She looked up into his dark eyes. He looked so intense, so forceful. "Yes, I trust you," she said.

ooooo

He could see her looking around her in alarm as he took her into the warehouse. "I told you I'd taken him somewhere they wouldn't think to look. Don't worry." She gulped and nodded, following him down the corridor. The stupid bitch was eating out of the palm of his hand. This would show Herrick who he could trust. He relaxed a little; now she was safely inside it didn't matter whether she screamed or struggled – there would be no-one to see or hear her protests. The warehouse was remote: even more so now the area had fallen into disuse. The vampires who chose the site had picked it so that unwelcome ears wouldn't hear the howls and screams each full moon. She could shout all she wanted: no-one would come for her.

"Is he here? Is he alright? Gareth? Gareth?" Cerys called out his name as they went further into the warehouse, then gasped and clung to Mitchell's side as Herrick stepped menacingly out of one of the rooms in front of them. Mitchell held her arm tightly and she clung to him as if he were offering reassurance instead of restraint.

"I thought I told you to find our missing houseguest, Mitchell, not find yourself some tart: unless, of course, you were planning to share. You've not left us much time, though, we'll have to make it fast food." Herrick leaned forward, his eyes glinting nastily, then drew back abruptly as the smell of werewolf assaulted his nostrils. "But what's this? Another one? I do believe you've been keeping secrets from me, Mitchell. Why don't you introduce us?"

Mitchell grinned at the surprise on Herrick's face. "This is Cerys, Herrick. She's Gareth's sister. I've persuaded her to stand in for him at short notice." His grip tightened on her forearm as he felt her tensing herself to run.

"A female werewolf in the cage, eh?" Herrick circled Cerys and she watched him with panic-stricken eyes. "Unusual, yes, but certainly permissible as I understand things." He let his eyes flash black and his fangs show and hissed threateningly at her. Cerys grabbed Mitchell and tried to drag him to the door.

"Jesus, Mitchell! He's a vampire! We've got to get out of here!"

Mitchell exchanged glances with Herrick before murmuring, "Oh, Cerys, you still don't get it, do you? You're exactly where I need you to be." She screamed her understanding as his eyes scorched black in a terrifying echo of Herrick's and carried on shouting as the two of them bundled her outside and locked her securely in the cage. The gulls wheeling overhead echoed her shrieks, but no-one heard her: no-one who cared, anyway.

ooooo

Mitchell left the warehouse to return to Whitmore View for a couple of hours before the fight. As the front door came into sight he caught a glimpse of a figure sitting outside and as he came closer still he could tell that it was Barbara sitting hunched on the step, her hands clasped in front of her, seemingly deep in thought. He considered going back to wait at the warehouse to avoid the confrontation that he felt was coming, but she looked up as if sensing him near her and beamed a welcome. She looked pitifully pleased to see him and her eyes shone as she got to her feet.

He grasped her arm, "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I needed to see you. You said you were leaving and you haven't, so I thought..."

"I _am_ leaving. I'm leaving very soon and we agreed we weren't going to see each other."

"No, Mitchell, _you_ agreed. I don't remember agreeing to anything. You're hurting me." She shook his hand off her arm and looked past him over his shoulder. "That's your uncle, isn't it? I can ask him if you're really leaving or if you're just saying that to get rid of me."

Jesus! Herrick? He glanced around; sure enough, Herrick had appeared at the far end of the road, heading for the guest house. "Shit!" He fumbled for his keys and let them in, shoving Barbara past the bags of cricket equipment that still littered the hall and into the lounge, "Stay in here. Stay here and for God's sake keep quiet!"

He went back to the open front door, reached into his pocket and lit a cigarette. Herrick paused at a few yards away. "Since when have you gone outside to smoke? You're normally hanging out of the window trying to pretend you're not smoking in your bedroom."

"You know. Turned over a new leaf." Mitchell took a drag on the cigarette and tried to look nonchalant. Herrick narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Mitchell.

"Yes, well, good luck with that," and he went through the door and up the stairs towards his room.

Mitchell waited till he heard the sound of Herrick's bedroom door closing, then stubbed out the cigarette and put the unsmoked half back in the packet, returning quickly to the lounge where Barbara was waiting for him on one of the sofas. She jumped to her feet, "What on earth was all that about?"

"We're not supposed to have girls back here; Mrs Griffiths would go berserk and my uncle would have a right go – he'd think I was going to get us chucked out or something. You shouldn't be here."

"I'm sorry, I didn't think. I needed to see you."

Barbara came forward and nestled herself against him. Instinctively his arms started to close around her. She sighed contentedly and put her arms around his waist. "Jesus, Barbara, you can't be here. No, damn it, I'm not going to do this." He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her away. "I'm not right for you; I'm not the man you think I am."

From beyond the dining room came a voice, "Mr Mitchell? Mr Mitchell, is that you?"

Mitchell shoved Barbara behind one of the sofas. "Get down there and don't make a sound. She sees you we are both in trouble."

"I'm here," he called. Irene Griffiths came through from the dining room, one hand behind her back.

From the moment he saw her he knew the game was up. She was tense, keeping herself under tight control, but she couldn't control the racing of her pulse or the quickening of her breathing. Mitchell swallowed hard, dreading what would surely come next. She took a deep breath to compose herself and said quietly, "Hello, John."

"Irene," he stared hard at the floor for a few moments, then met her gaze. "How long have you known?"

"I think in my heart I always knew, but my mind wouldn't let me accept it. It was impossible, wasn't it? So I rationalised it to myself. You _could_ look just like him, walk like him, have the same mannerisms as him, yet not be him. You were just a son who was uncannily like his father."

"What gave me away?"

She laughed hollowly. "Other than looking and sounding exactly the same as you did in 1917, you mean? I heard you singing: singing words of a song only my John would have known; a young man of your age wouldn't. And your story didn't quite match up with Mr Herrick's. So then I wrote to an old friend of mine at the War Office and called in a favour," she watched Mitchell's face to gauge his reaction. "He looked up the records for me. John Mitchell deserted in July 1917 after suffering from shell shock for several weeks. He was listed as missing, presumed dead. He never returned to Ireland as far as my friend could find out."

Mitchell raked his fingers through his hair and grasped his neck with both hands. His shoulders slumped. He had never felt so utterly defeated.

Irene bit her lip and looked at him, her eyes moistening, "But you're not him, are you? Not quite. And I can't quite decide what you are or how you are different." He flashed a look at her. How much exactly had she guessed? How much of a danger to him was she now? "Gareth said you were unnatural and inhuman. Well the unnatural I'd agree with; no-one of - what would you be now – sixty four? No-one of sixty four looks like you do. But inhuman...?"

Mitchell stared in disbelief. "It was _you_ that let Gareth out? But how did you find out about that?"

"Never mind. I've done some reading, and I'm thinking I need one of these two," she drew from behind her back the silver letter opener and a cricket stump, and put one in each hand.

"You wouldn't kill me, Irene," he took a step towards her, hands out to disarm her.

"Get back!" She raised both hands, her jaw tense but her manner more determined than he had ever seen her. "I don't want to, John, but so help me I will if I must. You have to turn yourself in to the authorities: let them decide what you are and what to do with you. Gareth said you killed people. The John Mitchell I knew killed people, I'm sure, but he had a conscience. Do you still have a conscience, John?"

"You don't know what you are getting yourself into," Mitchell's eyes were wide, appealing to her. "This is bigger than you know. Bigger even than I know. I can't let you do this." For centuries vampires had escaped detection and he knew what he had to do to stop it happening. But this was Irene standing in front of him; could he really do what was required of him when it was her that needed to be stopped? He stepped forward and she raised her weapons in warning once more.

"Stay back! Inhuman, he said. The books say silver for werewolves and a stake for vampires. What I don't know is which I need for you." She watched his eyes intently, saw how his gaze flickered involuntarily to the sharpened stick in her hand and hardly glanced at the silver knife. "I see," she said sadly. "In that case..." She circled round him, keeping him at bay with the stump until he was between her and the mirror over the mantelpiece; only she was reflected there. Her lip trembled and tears gathered in her eyes. "It's true then. Oh, John, what happened to you?"

"Herrick saved me: gave me life," he said, "Eternal youth. Isn't that worth some sacrifices? We could have been like that photograph forever."

"But at what cost?" She gasped, "That blood on your shirt: the one I washed for you. It wasn't yours, was it? Oh God, what have you done? The man in the cage – he said you made them fight till one of them died. How many people have you killed?"

His eyes filled with tears as he saw the revulsion in her eyes. "I've done bad things: really bad things. Oh, Jesus, Irene, I'm so sorry."

"So am I, John," and she launched herself at him, her makeshift stake upraised and heading for his heart. He was stronger than her, but he was tired and jaded and had never really believed she would try to kill him. The stake was a mere finger's breadth from piercing his chest when there was a sickening thump and Irene crumpled to the floor. When Mitchell tore his eyes away from the body on the ground he registered Herrick standing behind her, a bloodied cricket bat held aloft. Mitchell's stomach heaved and he swayed on his feet; the side of Irene's head was a mess of blood and crushed bone.


	10. Chapter 10

**OK, so I mostly got the reaction I wanted to that last chapter, thank you! :-) Irene's entire storyline was inspired by a few lines in my fic Unfinished Business.**

_Do you play golf?"_

_"Yes, but-"_

_"I'm more of a cricket man myself. At least I was, until an unfortunate incident with a cricket stump changed my views somewhat._

**It made me laugh when Herrick "said" that to me, but I had to wait patiently for him to tell me what the story behind the comment was.**

**Anyway, it appears this story will run to 12 chapters, so we are approaching the end game now. This picks straight up from the end of chapter 9, so Herrick has just killed Irene. Enjoy.**

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><p>Mitchell closed his eyes and swallowed hard, trying to suppress the sickness that threatened to overwhelm him. Oh Jesus God - Irene! Through the buzzing in his ears, he could hear Herrick talking, his cheerful tone quite at odds with the scene of slaughter at their feet.<p>

"I used to be quite a dab hand at cricket you know: played for the village team. Nice to see I haven't lost my touch." Herrick swung the bat again smiling broadly, an evil glint in his eye. "I take it she had worked out who you really were. Sounds like you've been careless again, Mitchell. Must try harder." Herrick poked at him with the cricket bat to emphasise each word, and Mitchell flinched away from the end which was covered with Irene's hair and blood.

"Jesus, we've got to save her." Mitchell dragged himself out of his stupor and dropped to his knees beside Irene. He ripped his shirt sleeve up his arm and his fangs descended ready to puncture his skin and feed her some of his blood.

Herrick pulled him away. "Save yourself the bother. It's too late; she's long past saving."

"But I can-"

Herrick shook him roughly by the shoulders. "She's dead, soldier. You can't save her now."

Mitchell sat back on his heels and covered his face with his hands, recognising the truth of Herrick's words. Irene had been dead mere moments after the bat hit her; there was no way Mitchell would have had time to recruit her. "What did you have to do that for?" he groaned.

Herrick poked the discarded stump with the toe of his shoe. "What? Would you rather I'd stood by while she spitted you on that? Ingenious, actually – wouldn't have occurred to me to try to stake someone with a cricket stump. She had brains, did Mrs Griffiths." He regarded the bat quizzically and poked at the end with a finger. "Actually, most of them seem to be on here now."

"I was handling it." Mitchell raised anguished brown eyes to his sire. They were brimful of tears and he angrily wiped them with the heels of his hands.

Herrick raised an eyebrow at him. "It didn't look that way from where I was standing. It looked like you were going to hesitate just that little bit too long before killing your girlfriend and..." Herrick's mime of a stake through the chest finished the sentence.

"She _wasn't_ my girlfriend."

"No, of course she wasn't. Age gap relationships rarely work." Herrick grinned and wiped the cricket bat clean on a tablecloth. "Go and fetch the stepladder, old chap. Then put it under the loft hatch and move Irene here next to it."

"But no-one is going to be fooled – the injury and the blood here..."

"Sometimes you can be as stupid as Seth, you know. The coppers will see what they are told to see, and the ones at the top of the food chain here are in our pocket. If the grunts are told she fell off the stepladder getting this stuff out of the attic, that's what they'll see. Now run along, we've got a dog fight to arrange."

Mitchell went and fetched the stepladder and set it up as ordered, but Herrick stopped and looked around, seeming almost to sniff the air. "Hang on a moment. The two of us, no heartbeat. Mrs Griffiths here, no heartbeat. So why can I hear blood pumping nearby?" He strode the length of the room towards the bay window, reached down and pulled up a near-witless Barbara from behind the sofa. She was all but frozen with fear, trembling and whimpering as Herrick dragged her out into the room and flung her down on a seat.

"So what do we have here? An eavesdropper? Mitchell!" Mitchell popped his head back into the room, groaning as he spotted Barbara on the sofa. In the trauma of Irene's revelation and subsequent death, he had almost forgotten the young girl cowering behind the sofa. It was a miracle she had managed to stay concealed for so long; she must have been out of her head with terror. "You wouldn't know anything about this, would you?"

Her gaze fell on Irene's body and she drew her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around her legs and keened in horror. "Shut her up!" barked Herrick, and as Mitchell hesitated he said grimly, "Shut her up or I will!"

Mitchell tried to put his arms around her, to comfort and calm her but she beat him away, struggling from his embrace and staring at him, horrified. "You did this! Oh God, let me go. Let me go home. I don't want any part of this."

"I'm afraid that won't be possible," drawled Herrick. "Get her into the car and take her to the warehouse."

"But Herrick – it's not her fault. Let her go, she's only a kid."

"She was enough of an adult for you to get her into this. She's involved now whether you like it or not."

Herrick placed the call that would see the vampire machinery whirl into action disposing of Irene's body and fabricating some plausible stroy about her death, while Mitchell coaxed a terrified Barbara into the car. It was only when he told her what Herrick would do to her if she didn't comply that she reluctantly got into the back seat. When Herrick joined her there moments later she shrank away from him so much she seemed to be trying to become part of the door on the other side.

"This is...cosy. To the warehouse, Mitchell. Our visitors will be starting to arrive shortly; we wouldn't want them to arrive and find no-one there to greet them, would we?"

ooooo

Seth and Marco had come from Bristol for the fight and were at the warehouse when Mitchell and Herrick arrived, making preparations for the fight and casting sidelong glances at Cerys, who sat in the far corner of the cage, knees drawn up to her chest. They had tried goading her, but she just stared back sullenly, and soon they gave it up as no sport at all.

"So who's the new dog?" Seth greeted them, as they brought Barbara out of the warren of corridors and led her blinking back into the sunlight. A lecherous grin crossed his face as he saw Barbara, "A fight between bitches, eh? Good plan."

"Herrick you can't do this. I'm responsible for her-" Mitchell made another desperate attempt to sway Herrick, but one look at Herrick's face told him he would be unsuccessful.

"Oh yes you are, Mitchell. Very responsible."

Barbara was shoved into the cage with Cerys, and the two women eyed each other apprehensively. "No talking, you two," Seth warned, "you're in here because it's easier to keep an eye on you this way, not for any Women's Institute shit."

Cerys clambered to her feet and glared through the mesh at Mitchell. She appeared torn between fear and defiance, but when Mitchell finally met her eyes it was the latter that won out. "So what is this, some sort of vampire wet dream?"

"What...?"

"This," she swept out an arm to encompass the cage with Barbara cowering miserably in the far corner. "Is this how you lot get your kicks, then? Getting a couple of women to fight it out. A bit clichéd, isn't it, vampire boy?"

He didn't know what to say. Cerys was a werewolf – she was fair game – but Irene and Barbara...his stomach churned as he thought of Irene lying on the floor of the guest house and of the fate that awaited Barbara.

"Hey!" Seth shouted from the far side, "Get down, Lassie. I said no talking."

Cerys's eyes were full of loathing as they followed Mitchell as he walked miserably back to the offices inside the warehouse.

ooooo

Gareth had gone straight to the house he shared with Cerys. She wasn't there although the house showed signs of recent occupation: shoes cast off just inside the door and breakfast dishes stacked beside the sink.

He thought a while about what to do. She might just be out at the shop or something and he didn't want to go straight back out and miss her. It wouldn't be like her to be out too long; she normally stayed pretty close to home. Gareth had caught the looks from people as he had hared through the streets and knew he must look a right state. He sniffed at himself and screwed up his nose; he stank too. He would bath and change and see if she was back when he was done: if not he'd decide then what his next step should be.

He stripped off and threw his clothes straight in the bin; after a month of living in them they weren't fit for anything else. He ran the water in the bath. It was warm, not hot, but welcome all the same. The feeling was so good after four weeks in the cage and he could happily have stayed there for longer than was strictly necessary to get clean, but the vampires would discover him missing and come after him, so he couldn't hang around too long.

Gareth grabbed the closest towel and rubbed his hair dry, wrapping the towel around himself and heading for the bedroom for some clean clothes. He'd expected Cerys to be back by now, but he'd been missing a long time and who knew what had been going on with her. He couldn't help but feel anxious though – he'd only be happy when they were high tailing it out of Barry. He pulled out clean trousers and shirt. The trousers needed belting - he had lost a lot of weight these past few weeks – and the shirt hung loosely from his shoulders, but at least it was clean.

Where the hell was she? They needed to go; it wouldn't take the vampires long to find out where he lived, if they didn't know already. He checked his watch. Damn, only a couple of hours to full moon. They couldn't risk leaving now – not with their change so close. The vampires were probably counting on that, he realised. They'd come straight after, when he was weak and groggy from the transformation. Their chances were looking less good by the minute.

Right, so he had to find her, bring her back here and make sure she was safe in the basement, then head for the railway himself. He hated daytime full moons; it was always harder to conceal oneself in broad daylight. He supposed she might already have gone up there – he guessed she would have transformed in the railway the previous month, without him here to shut her in the basement – and she might have gone up there under the cover of darkness. He'd make sure she was safe and then decide what to do about his own transformation. If the worst came to the worst and he couldn't shut himself away somewhere he'd head for the warehouse: see how many vampires he could rip to shreds before they took him down.

ooooo

Riley had been predictably surprised to see Gareth when he turned up at the scenic railway. All through the park people had called greetings to him and trying to stop him to ask where he'd been, but when their answer to his question, "Have you seen Cerys today? Do you know where she might be?" was invariably "No" he continued resolutely through the park to the ride that dominated the skyline.

"She got a job in an ice cream parlour in town," Riley said, "Not sure if she was working today, but I've seen her there a couple of times. Say, you can't hang around for a bit, can you? Chap who works on here now hasn't shown up today and we're run ragged without him. Of all the days for him to go AWOL he picks a Saturday: bet the bugger was out drinking last night and he's sleeping it off somewhere."

"Sorry, need to find Cerys: an ice cream parlour, you say?"

"Yes, the one opposite the Roxy. She started there not long after you vanished. Say, where did you go, anyway?"

Gareth knew the one. He dodged Riley's questions and left him having made a vague promise of drinking with him sometime soon and yes, he'd talk to the management about getting his job back, even though there was fat chance of that with him going missing for a month.

The ice cream parlour wasn't far and he headed straight there, going directly to the counter. "Is Cerys here?"

The woman behind the counter looked suspiciously at him. He hadn't had time to shave, so although clean he probably still looked dodgy, with a month's worth of beard. "She's not here. Chap came by earlier and she said she had to go – family emergency or something. Bloody nuisance, frankly. Especially on a Saturday. Bad enough that she'd arranged the afternoon off without her disappearing for the morning too."

"This chap, what was he like?"

"Twenties, dark hair. I don't know – he'd been in here a few times with some strange kid from town. Irish chap. Wait a minute – are you her brother? But he said you were ill, that she had to come right away, or I wouldn't have let her go off like that. Where have you been? The poor kid has been worrying herself sick about you."

"Irish you say?" Gareth's pulse started to pound in his ears. "About my height – maybe a little taller? Dark wavy hair? Wears a leather jacket some times?"

"That sounds like him-" but Gareth was gone, out of the door and running down the road, back towards the warehouse. Time was ebbing away before full moon, and that bastard Mitchell had his sister!


	11. Chapter 11

**Penultimate chapter, winding down a little bit. Or maybe not...**

**Cerys and Barbara in the cage, Gareth on his way - what could go wrong with that scenario?**

**Thanks to Toby Whithouse for providing such fantastic fanfic material. Big up for Lord Toby, please! He owns it, I'm just playing with his toys...**

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><p>"Please, Herrick, just let the kid go," Mitchell's chin slumped to his chest and he clasped his hands behind his neck.<p>

Herrick sighed wearily. He could almost feel sorry for Mitchell; he was having a rough morning. But Barbara had been sobbing in the corner for a good half hour and the sound was grating on his nerves. Mitchell's fault; it always seemed to be Mitchell's fault.

The subject of his thoughts let out a frustrated cry. "Why does it have to be her? There are hundreds of humans out there; I could go and grab one and be back in less than ten minutes."

Herrick stared coolly at the younger vampire. He would never understand him, not if he lived to be a thousand, he thought. Just when Herrick thought he knew him, when he had led him on a trail of blood that spanned a fair part of Europe, Mitchell suddenly develops a conscience? Begging for a human's life instead of entreating Herrick to be allowed to be the first to pierce succulent youthful flesh? Madness!

"She knows what we are. We showed her in fairly graphic fashion, if you recall."

"Ah, Jesus." Mitchell covered his face with his hands again and Herrick knew he was seeing Irene Griffiths' broken body on the floor of her lounge in his mind's eye. It had been hard enough on Mitchell seeing his old flame like that – living under her roof for these weeks – without having to play a part in her sudden death as well.

Mitchell tried a different tack. "Her grandparents will be looking for her. Maybe not straight away, but they'll soon get worried when she doesn't come home tonight. What then?"

"We have ways of dealing with these things. You know that."

"We have ways of dealing with bodies with fang marks and all the blood sucked out of them. By the time Cerys has finished with her, Barbara will be so many meat scraps on the floor of the cage. How are you planning on having Cardiff police deal with that?"

Herrick chuckled. "I'm sure we'll cope. Thanks for your concern though; I appreciate it."

"Listen, if anything happens to Barbara they will come after me. Half the town knows I was seeing her and we broke up pretty publicly. I'm going to be prime suspect if she disappears. It'll be a hue and cry."

"Wait a minute, did I hear that right? You were _seeing_ her? You _broke up_? Do you have any idea how pathetic that sounds? You sound like a lovesick teenager, son. I think the sea air has rotted your brain or something. The sooner we get you back to Bristol the better." He patted Mitchell's shoulder and walked past, "You'll soon feel more yourself when we get you home."

Across in the cage, Cerys hissed and hunched forward, clutching her sides. Barbara looked up concerned, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and casting a sidelong glance at Mitchell to see if he was watching she started to move cautiously towards Cerys. "Are you alright?" she whispered, "Are you sick?"

"Hey!" Seth called from across the cage, "Keep away from her, you. You don't go anywhere near her." He stood up, standing menacingly by the cage until Barbara crept back to where she had come from.

"Time to move our young friend into the warehouse I think, Seth," murmured Herrick. "Our guests will be arriving soon and we want to keep her our little secret."

Before Seth could react, the door was flung open and Gareth strode through, a wooden stake held determinedly in both hands and the set of his jaw declaring that he meant business. The vampires closed ranks: Herrick, Mitchell, and Seth shoulder to shoulder against the invader.

"What have you done with my sister, you bloodsucking parasites?"

"Gareth!" screamed Cerys from the cage. "I'm over here." She rattled the cage and Mitchell risked a glance behind him before returning his attention to the irate werewolf.

"Let her out," said Gareth, levelling the stake at Mitchell's chest. "Bloody well let her out of there. I know what you're planning and it's not going to happen – not with my sister."

A hint of movement caught Herrick's eye. Marco was peeping out from around the door behind Gareth. Herrick licked his lips; if he had wanted the cavalry to come riding to the rescue he would sooner it not be in the shape of Marco, but beggars couldn't be choosers and better Marco than Seth. He took a half step forward and engaged Gareth's attention, "Now then, can't we talk sensibly about this..."

Marco leapt forward, a sledgehammer in his hand, shouting at the top of his voice. Mitchell reached behind, grabbed the chain he had spotted behind him and flung it round the werewolf's legs. As Gareth raised the stick to parry Marco's blow with the hammer, Mitchell flung the chain which wrapped round Gareth's ankles, putting him off balance. Seth body-charged him, taking Gareth over, and the two tumbled to the floor, the stake falling harmlessly to the ground just out of reach.

Mitchell, Marco and Seth between them dragged Gareth to his feet and restrained the struggling man, who swore profusely until Mitchell silenced him with a well-placed punch. Behind him, Cerys screamed and shook on the cage in desperation as she saw her brother sag at the knees supported between Seth and Marco.

"Just shut the fuck up," Mitchell muttered, rubbing his knuckles.

"Must be your lucky day, Mitchell," commented Herrick, "That's two people trying to stake you in one morning. I wouldn't try for third time lucky." He turned his attention to Gareth, "Now then, it would appear that coming single-handed to take on a group of vampires wasn't the best life choice you could have made. You had your liberty restored to you, courtesy of the lovely Mrs Griffiths, and you have chosen to throw it back in her face, so to speak. Now why, I wonder, would you do a stupid thing like that?"

"Let my sister go," Gareth mumbled past a lip that was pouring with blood and rapidly swelling.

"I see, so you came to try to spring your sister, armed only with..." Herrick considered the stake, "a sharpened fence post, by the look of it. Well, you have failed, my dear fellow, and now we go from having no werewolves to a positive embarrassment of them. This close to transformation, too. What should we do with him, gentlemen?"

"Put me in the cage again. I'll fight whoever you put in there with me, just let Cerys go."

"I've got a better idea," Mitchell leapt in, "Put the two weres in the cage: dog against dog. I've never heard of it being done before, so it will grab people's attention."

"Hmm. Possible." Herrick considered the proposition, head on one side and eyes narrowed. It had its appeal, certainly. He wanted to go out with a bang, since they were leaving Barry in the next few days. A dog against dog fight might just provide that.

"Let Barbara go," urged Mitchell. "Let her go and put Gareth in the cage with his sister. Go on, Herrick, you know it makes sense. If the others see Barbara when they start to arrive they'll want to keep her back to feed on after the fight rather than hunting, so it has to be now. Please, Herrick. I don't often ask you for anything. I'll put on the big show for you tonight – anything you want – just let Barbara go."

"No!" Gareth shouted, "It has to be Cerys."

"I don't think you're in any position to make demands," Herrick flung casually in Gareth's direction. "Very well, Mitchell, it seems you will get your wish. Your little girlfriend is officially surplus to requirements; she can go. Seth?" The other vampire stepped forward. "I want you to take the girl home. Mitchell can give you her address, I dare say. Take his car."

"I'll take her," Mitchell volunteered, pulling his car key from his pocket.

"No, I want you here when people arrive. I swear some of them come to see you, rather than the fight. I can't imagine why."

"But-"

"If you are babysitting a human rather than here at my side when people start to arrive, what message does that give out? No, Seth takes her, or she stays in the cage."

Mitchell scowled back, then reluctantly handed over the key and told Seth an address close by. "If you so much as get a mark on it..."

Seth grinned. "Don't worry, Mitchell, I'll take care of your baby...both of them. Though I suspect you're more concerned about the car than the girl, deep down."

They manhandled Gareth over to the cage and tossed him inside. Cerys ran to him and clung to his chest, weeping. Gareth made as if to charge the door, but Seth quickly closed it. "Ah ah!" he warned, wagging a finger. "Not too close."

"To the back of the cage, both of you," Herrick said. "Go on, get to the back, or we'll leave the girl in here and you'll tear her apart as well when you change. I'm sure you can see the sense in someone surviving, even if it's not you." Gareth and Cerys slunk to the far end and Barbara approached the gate, looking as if she hardly believed that her ordeal was over at last.

As she passed Herrick he put a hand on her arm to stop her. Lifting her chin with one finger he leaned close and said in an undertone, "Tell anyone what you saw today and we'll come for you. Do you understand?" She nodded mutely, eyes wide.

"Don't say I never give you anything," Herrick muttered to Mitchell, "Not that I'm expecting gratitude or anything – just next time you object to something I'm proposing remember that this time I was lenient, all right? Right, if Seth's taking the girl home you need to help Marco get this place ship shape. Go on, jump to it." Mitchell watched as Seth led Barbara away but she wouldn't meet his eyes. Shoulders slumped, he turned away and started to clear the area around the cage for the expected visitors.

Herrick caught Seth's attention with a quick raise of his head. Glancing back to make sure Mitchell wasn't looking, he made a slicing gesture with his fingers across his throat and watched Seth intently to make sure he understood. A long slow smile crossed Seth's face and he cast a speculative look in Mitchell's direction. Herrick shook his head almost imperceptibly and Seth's grin widened. He took a firmer hold on Barbara's arm and steered her towards the door. "Don't worry, darling. I'm taking you home. It'll all be over soon."

ooooo

As the visiting vampires started to assemble, Herrick took on the role of convivial host once more. Daylight fights never had the intensity or the popularity of night time ones - the darkness added to the atmosphere - but the die hards were here and Herrick was lapping up the attention as usual. Mitchell was as good as his word, providing a darkly brooding presence around the cage, stalking the length and breadth of it harassing the werewolves, although he glanced at the entrance occasionally, watching for Seth's return.

The visitors had been surprised to see two figures in the cage, and even more so when they both showed the earliest signs of transformation, but now they waited eagerly to see what would occur. Cerys let out a keening cry, gritting her teeth to try to suppress it but failing, and moments later Gareth joined her, groaning darkly as the first pains began to wrack his body.

Herrick beckoned Mitchell over. "It's starting. Nearly time for the show. Time for you to whip them up a bit – get everyone going, you know."

Gareth leapt to the cage and rattled the mesh. "Give us a knife. Give us a knife, damn you. You gave the human a knife."

Herrick's face was cold and dispassionate as he said, "And have you sacrifice yourself to save your sister before the fight has even started? I think not. What sort of entertainment would that be if you decided to do such a noble and courageous thing?" His eyes glittered in the sunlight, "Oh no, you two are going to give us our fight, make no mistake about that."

"We could throw it in after they've transformed, Herrick. See if the doggies can work out how to use cutlery." Mitchell jeered in Gareth's face as the werewolf's features contorted with another spasm of pain.

"That would have to be a silver one, though, wouldn't it, to be effective after they changed? Did you bring the letter opener with you?"

Mitchell made a great show of searching his jacket pockets and slapping down his trouser legs. "Damn me, I think I left it at the guest house."

"Shame, I didn't think to bring it either. So it looks like you're fighting then. Sorry." Herrick turned his back and stalked off to talk to some vampires who had made the journey from Swansea having heard good things about the previous month's fight. Mitchell looked despondently after him; he really didn't have the heart for this.

ooooo

The pain got worse the closer they got to full moon. They would normally have discarded their clothing by now, shut away in the basement or beneath the railway, but were acutely aware of each other and of the taunts of the vampires. Eventually Gareth sighed, "Can't put it off much longer, I suppose," and took off his shirt, tossing it to one side where it was dragged through the bars by one of the observing vampires. His trousers followed and he sat in his underwear, wondering how Cerys was going to handle this. The last time he could remember seeing her naked she had been a child, running around under the sprinkler at home on a hot summer's day. Things had been simpler then.

"I'm not sure if I can," she whispered. "They are all watching. It's like some sick nightmare."

Gareth stroked her face. "You can do it, sis. You need to be strong." He shielded her with his own body as best he could as she undressed, his stomach churning at the choking sobs and the suggestive comments from many of the vampires. Mitchell stood silently, he noticed, staring towards them but somehow Gareth knew he wasn't seeing them; he seemed distracted, lost in his own thoughts. Gareth wished fervently that he could have Mitchell in the cage with him when it was time to transform: the one time when a werewolf could get the better of a vampire and there was industrial strength metal between them. He'd rip the bastard to bits, given half a chance.

The two werewolves huddled together in the centre of the cage, sharing their misery. Gareth wrapped his arms around Cerys, awkwardly at first, aware of their nakedness and the whistles and jeers from the vampires, then more tenderly. He stroked a strand of hair from her face and tried to wipe away the tears that streamed steadily from her eyes.

"They want me to kill you. Oh God, Cerys, I can't remember what I do when I'm transformed, but they are assuming I will be stronger than you and I'll overpower you. I swear this to you: I will try with everything I know to remember who you are and not to hurt you." He turned her face to his so that she looked directly into his eyes. "You have to promise me that you'll kill me if you get the opportunity." He silenced her gently with a finger over her lips and continued, "You must. This is all my fault and I want you to have a chance." He drew her closer as she sobbed into his chest. "Promise me, Cerys."

She nodded miserably and he smiled softly, satisfied that he had done what he could.

ooooo

Seth returned, slipping quietly in at the back unnoticed by anyone but Herrick, who sent a questioning look in his direction. Seth nodded and grinned, and a slight answering smile crossed Herrick's face. Good, that was one little loose end tied up. No reason Mitchell should ever know about that one, as long as Seth had been neat and tidy in his disposal. Mitchell would be even more upset to find a blood stain on the carpet than a scratch on the metalwork, he dared say, in the circumstances.

"Looks like I'm back in time then," commented Seth to Mitchell, just as Cerys screamed in agony, head flung forward and back arched against the pain. "Never seen two change at the same time. Wonder if you can tell which one's which when they are transformed."

"Easy," said Mitchell, dropping a cigarette end and grinding it out with his foot. "One will have a pink bow and the other will have a blue one," and he strode off, dragging Gareth's stake across the wire, the din further jangling the nerves of the already agitated observers.

Gareth again was a moment or two behind his sister, falling to his knees and clenching his fists as the wave of pain swept through his body. Murmurs of excitement ran through the vampires as the werewolves' eyes changed to a yellow-amber and their fangs showed for the first time. Many of the vampires allowed their eyes and teeth to change too, pressing their faces up against the mesh and hissing their hate at the werewolves.

Cerys and Gareth looked at each other sadly through eyes already not their own, and Gareth managed to gasp out "Remember, kill me if you get the chance," through vocal chords already shifting into those of the beast. He stared in revulsion as the claws forced their way through his fingertips, the change as horrific this time as it had been every time since he was first infected. Brother and sister both dropped to their knees then, screaming as spine ridges erupted under their skin and hair forced its way through. The jeers and taunts of the vampires stilled as they watched in fascination as two wolves appeared before their eyes.

The screams turned into howls as jawlines extended and soft human skin became the tougher muzzle of the wolf. Spine ridges grew larger still and their skeletal structure transformed them from the upright posture of the human to the crouched, all fours posture of the animal they had become.

As the moon reached its fullest point, the wolves stretched out their necks and bayed, the howls strangely out of place in the broad daylight. Then the hush that had fallen over the awed vampires suddenly lifted and they yelled and hammered their fists on the wire as the fully transformed werewolves crouched across the cage from each other, bodies tensed to leap into the fight.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N So, poor little Barbara, eh? It seemed to work better with Barbara dying "off screen". Everything else about her was unassuming and quiet, so it made sense to me that her death would be too. I quite liked Herrick and Seth disposing of her without Mitchell even realising; I think Seth would have got a real kick out of that! **

**Last chapter now, with a tip of the hat to The Pack (S3E4) for what happens here. Thanks for following the story and for all your kind reviews and I hope it gives you adequate resolution. **

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><p>The two werewolves circled each other warily, bodies tense and every sinew stretched ready to spring at any sign of danger. Gradually the noise from the watching vampires subsided, and the werewolves seemed to give up interest in each other and paced the outside of the cage, lips drawn back to show bared teeth at the watching vampires. Mitchell did his best to incite them, once more smashing the chain violently against the bars and shouting himself hoarse, but in due course even he had to admit defeat and join the rest of the vampires in watching silently as Cerys and Gareth patrolled their territory. Eventually Cerys went and laid down in a far corner and Gareth stood over her, hackles raised and occasionally growling a low warning through clenched teeth, protectively guarding her from the crowd.<p>

The vampires went mad then, hitting the cage with anything they could find, and throwing anything that would fit through the mesh in a final futile attempt to enrage them, but the werewolves just stared back, yellow-amber eyes impassive. Herrick was the most enraged of all, roaring his anger through the mesh of the cage, face red and eyes wild in his fury, but even he couldn't rouse the wary werewolves. When nothing served to provoke the beasts, one by one the vampires drifted away, disappointed, as they contemplated the dog fight that never was.

ooooo

Hours later, a dishevelled Mitchell sat by the cage, smoking one cigarette after another, watching Gareth and Cerys as they slept curled up together on the cage floor, drained from their transformation.

The change back had been slightly gentler, Mitchell had noticed. He had never seen a werewolf change back into a human, but although bones still broke and ligaments and tendons ripped and tore, their bodies seemed almost relieved to be reassuming their normal form instead of fighting against their nature. They dropped from exhaustion then, Mitchell the only observer of the process, the others having departed long since.

As he watched Cerys stirred, her eyes flickering open. She started as she woke somewhere unfamiliar, and looked around cautiously as she memory of what had happened returned. She sat up and her eyes closed in relief as she registered her brother, whole and unharmed, still sleeping next to her. "Thank God," she whispered, clasping her hands in front of her mouth and then covering her eyes, her shoulders shaking in silent sobs as the tension left her.

Mitchell uncoiled himself from where he had been sitting, stretching cramped muscles and making Cerys aware that he was there. She gasped, trying unsuccessfully to cover herself, anxious again at the presence of the vampire. Mitchell opened the cage and tossed her clothes in, following them with Gareth's. "Here, get dressed," and he turned his back while she dressed herself quickly. Strange, he thought to himself, a few hours earlier he had been quite prepared to watch her being ripped to shreds but now he gave her privacy to clothe herself. No wonder werewolves didn't understand vampires: as often as not he didn't either.

She shook Gareth awake and he sat up, instantly alert. He pulled on his trousers, then came over to where Mitchell was sitting and spoke to him while doing up his shirt buttons. "Did we spoil your party? It can't have been much fun for you, watching us not kill each other. Let her go now. You've seen she's no use to you. Let her go and I'll stay – be your fighting dog if you want me to be."

Mitchell took a long drag from his cigarette. "Did anyone see you yesterday? Do they know you are back? How is it going to look if you disappear again?" He exhaled, a long thin stream of smoke pouring from his lips.

"She won't tell, will you, Cerys? She can say it was some bloke who was drunk and claiming to be me. You didn't know me, so you believed the bloke when he said he was me. Yes? Let her go, Mitchell. You've got to let her go – she's my little sister and it's my fault what's happening to her – it's all my fault."

Mitchell was suddenly tired. Irene's death had shaken him more than he cared to admit, and he had nearly brought Barbara to her death too. There had been enough killing for a time. The next time he killed it would be to eat, not for sport or because of some senseless chain of events. "Step away from the gate, both of you." He unlocked the gate and motioned to Cerys, "Remember, we've got him here. Any hint that you've told anyone about us and he's dead. Yes?"

She stared at Mitchell in amazement, then clung to Gareth's arm. "I can't leave you," she pleaded with him, but he gently removed her hold and took her to one side. Mitchell could hear him urging her to go, her protestations gradually waning as he persuaded her to take her chance at freedom.

When she had gone, casting one last reluctant look at her brother, Mitchell leaned against the cage and said, "What do you mean it's all your fault?"

Gareth glared at him. "Like you care."

"Try me. Everything round here seems to be _my_ fault, one way or another. Maybe I'm just interested to hear about someone else screwing up for a change."

Gareth gave Mitchell a long searching look, then started recounting his tale. He had been working on the big wheel at a travelling fairground, he told Mitchell. One night he'd been packing up after the fair closed and he and the friend he was working with had been attacked by a werewolf. His friend had shut himself in the control booth of the ride just before the wolf got to him, but Gareth had been further away. He'd been scratched just as he clambered into one of the seats and his friend raised it off the ground, far enough up that the wolf couldn't get to him. They had tried to tell what they had seen, but it had been dismissed as a big dog: a wolfhound maybe or an alsatian. Everyone knew there were no wild wolves in Wales any more.

The following month, of course, he had no idea what was going to happen to him. He had woken in the night with wracked with pain. Cerys had been terrified; she had tried to comfort him, but he had raked her with his claws as he started to transform. Thankfully, he had realised then what was happening, and had managed to run far away before the full transformation happened. "The human part of me knew she was my sister, but the wolf part didn't recognise her. I could have killed her without even realising it." They had moved around since then, never spending more than a few months in one place, although they liked Barry and had hoped to stay there, until...well, until Mitchell and Herrick. "We've always transformed apart up till now. I didn't know that would happen – what happened last night I mean. I assumed as you did that we'd just rip each other to pieces. I guess I recognise her now that she's a wolf like me, but didn't recognise her in human form." Gareth shrugged. "It's still my fault she's like she is, though. I did that to my own kid sister."

"But you didn't kill her today. I'm sure that shows you love her. You'd probably have killed her if there wasn't that connection between you."

Gareth looked curiously at him as if he was considering having a dig at Mitchell about not knowing about love again, but instead he said, "I do love her, yes. Very much. We've only got each other. We've been alone for five years now and I had to fight to be allowed to look after her; they wanted to take her into care as she was under age and I was barely nineteen. We're only ever likely to have each other too. I wouldn't dare marry or have children for fear of what I might do to them."

"I'm sorry."

Gareth again considered Mitchell carefully, "Yes, I really think you are. You're a strange one, Mitchell. You were a vicious bastard last month, you and Herrick both, yet here you are sympathising with a werewolf over his personal circumstances."

Mitchell unlocked the gate. "I have a feeling I'll live to regret this when Herrick finds out, but go. Leave town; don't come back; stay away from Bristol. Go on, before I change my mind.

Gareth paused outside the gate. "We've had everything taken away from us – home, family, friends. We've only got each other, but that's enough for me. What have you got?"

ooooo

Herrick and Mitchell had planned on moving out of Whitmore View, in the circumstances, but Janice Griffiths insisted they stay one more night before setting off back to Bristol.

"Irene had bookings for the next few weeks – right through the end of the season and into October – and I've contacted them all to let them know and see if they still want to come. I'll run it for now. She shrugged sadly. "I expect we will inherit. My husband was her only child, so there's no-one else."

Mitchell kept his eyes on his breakfast. Janice didn't know to keep him well-supplied with toast, but she did a good breakfast nonetheless. He was making a concerted effort to avoid looking at the patch of carpet where he knew there had been a pool of blood the day before; Cardiff's clean-up squad had done a good job, he gave them that. He had shuddered when he came downstairs to find the cricket gear still in sports bags in the hall, cricket bat cleaned and polished propped up on the wall beside them. Herrick had smiled coldly at the sight, but had rearranged his face into an appropriately sombre expression before entering the dining room, where he had commiserated with Janice on her loss.

"Will you run it, or sell up, Mrs Griffiths?" Herrick asked, a look of concern on his face that Mitchell would have believed was genuine if he hadn't seen the events of the previous day with his own eyes. When it came to dissembling, Herrick was a master, Mitchell had to admit.

"We really haven't talked about it yet. You'll understand that John is rather upset at the moment."

Herrick looked at Mitchell and raised an eyebrow. "Of course. Send him our condolences, won't you."

When she had returned to the sanctuary of the kitchen, Herrick leaned across to Mitchell and said softly, "John, eh? Didn't leave a little legacy behind you did you, soldier?"

Mitchell scowled back. "I think that might have made that home leave pretty memorable. Maybe she just liked the name."

"Oh I don't know. After all this time, all those women. Your memory might be a bit faulty. No quick fumble at the dance or after that Sunday lunch, then?"

"No. Just...no." Mitchell pushed back his chair abruptly and stalked out of the dining room, leaving Herrick staring thoughtfully after him.

ooooo

"Oh, has he gone already?" Janice's face dropped as she came into the lounge, where Herrick was reading the newspaper. "I thought he might like to see this." She held out an old photograph in a simple silver frame. A much-younger Irene smiled out from it, in a wedding outfit suitable for reuse as a smart suit: the austerity of the war still evident in her choice of clothes. The uniformed man beside her was dark-haired and dark-eyed: easy to see Irene's type, thought Herrick. Or maybe Mitchell had set the pattern for her of what she had looked for in a man.

"She looks very happy," said Herrick, handing the picture back to her.

"Oh they were, I think. My husband is so like his father and Irene adored him. Irene's husband died quite young, you know, and Irene and John have always been close. Maybe I'll leave it here. Mr Mitchell can see it when he comes back, if he'd like to," and she crossed to put the photograph on the mantelpiece. It joined cards and flowers that had been delivered the previous evening as people heard the news. "Everyone has been so kind. She would have been touched, I think, by how well people thought of her."

"She was a remarkable woman," commented Herrick, "Most remarkable."

ooooo

A stony silence enveloped the riders in the Ford Zephyr. The passenger sat grim-faced and with arms crossed and the dark-haired driver managed to look defensive even as he drove. "You're going to have to talk to me sooner or later, you know. You can't keep this up forever." The visit to the warehouse before they left had revealed Mitchell's impulsive action and Herrick was not happy. Mitchell looked sidelong at the man in the passenger seat. "We didn't need them any more, now that we're going back to Bristol. What was I supposed to do? Leave them locked up in there to starve to death? You say I'm bad, but you're sulking like a child – look at you."

Herrick stared straight ahead, his face not registering Mitchell's words at all.

"They never did anything to hurt us. They didn't deserve to be left like that, even if they did mess up your precious dog fight."

Herrick's cheek twitched. His reputation would have taken a knock after that fiasco and he didn't care to be reminded about it. The chances of him being invited back to host another event seemed remote at present, especially since word had come through of the redevelopment of that whole area of Barry Island – they'd have to find a new venue if the fights were to continue and suitable sites were hard to find at the best of times.

Mitchell's voice grew more petulant. He didn't like being cold-shouldered, even though he was acutely aware that pitching the two werewolves against each other had been his idea, and he knew that Herrick hadn't forgotten that either. "Jesus, Herrick, I did it because they loved each other. Do you even remember what loving someone feels like, after all this time? I don't. I envy them."

That got a reaction. Herrick turned slowly in his seat, cold blue eyes piercing. "Love? Love is what humans invent to make their pathetic lives more tolerable: to stop them being afraid their whole lives of dying alone. What do we need love for?"

"It just seemed to me...I don't know. Like we were missing out."

"We've evolved, Mitchell. We're the next stage. Vampires don't need love – we've come back from death so we don't need to be afraid of dying. We have our strength: that wins out over love every time."

Five weeks before, Mitchell would have said that too – now he wasn't so sure.

ooooo

They lapsed back into silence after this exchange, albeit a slightly less frosty one. Herrick pulled the newspaper out of the door pocket and started to read. He had seen too many regimes and fashions come and go to pay much attention to the news these days, but he always scanned the papers, more out of habit than anything else. On one of the inner pages, something caught his eye: a story about the tragic death of a young girl in Barry. Excellent, he always liked to know what cover story the clean-up teams had come up with. She had apparently walked into the sea and drowned herself after discovering the bodies of her grandparents in a smoke-filled room in their house. She girl, who had been orphaned aged nine, had lived with her grandparents since then and had no other family, the papers said. There was the strong hint of a relationship break up too, but no mention of the man's name. Known to be an outsider, and without anyone else to turn to, the girl had apparently decided to take her own life rather than carry on alone.

Herrick pursed his lips. Just as well Mitchell rarely read the newspapers –Barbara's name was even in the article and Mitchell wasn't one to be fobbed off with the tragic accident tale. He'd recognise a vampire cover story when he saw one. He really had to have a word with Seth. He'd told him to deal with the girl, but couldn't remember saying anything about her grandparents as well. That was Seth all over; he always tended to get carried away.

ooooo

Beside him, his friend and vampire offspring pondered an existence without love. When even werewolves, the lowest of the low in vampire terms, could still feel that way was it really possible that he couldn't? Not ever again? He thought back over four decades of killing, reviewing the faces and names of the people he had killed and wondered whether it was all really worth it...

Damn! Faces and names, names and faces: that meant that the hunger was kicking in again. He felt the familiar gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach and tried to work out when he had last fed. Too damn long ago, the answer came back.

Up ahead of them a man came into sight, trudging along the grass verge, petrol can in hand. He heard the sound of their engine approaching and stuck out an optimistic thumb. Herrick and Mitchell exchanged meaningful looks and Mitchell pulled the car over to stop a few yards ahead of him. The man trotted hopefully up to the car and Herrick wound the window down. "Need a lift somewhere? Hop in the back then." He mumbled his thanks, grateful at the lift that would save him a tedious walk to the nearest filling station, and Herrick and Mitchell smiled at each other as the delicate aroma of fresh blood filled the car. If all Mitchell had to look forward to was Herrick and Seth and Marco he supposed he'd have to live with it, but he couldn't help thinking there had to be more to life – even a vampire's life – than this.

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><p><strong>AN Yeah, I know *another* note - so shoot me! It struck me writing this that Irene was the same sort of age as Josie was in S1E5 and Barbara was a prototype young Josie. Barbara wasn't strong enough to be his saviour but she did enough to make him wonder if he could still have a relationship with a human. And poor Cerys and Gareth – they had lost everything but each other. Even with his great distaste for werewolves, Mitchell found it in him to pity them at the end and even envy them just a little bit. Did my subconscious make them proto-George? **

**As for the "John" thing, Janice was NOT going to let me finish without her reappearing and she tried really hard to throw *that* particular spanner in the works. However, in-my-head-Mitchell was adamant that he hadn't had that kind of relationship with Irene and for me, Mitchell's telling the truth, but you can decide!**

**WH x**


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